


Trade This Life for Something New

by KouriArashi



Category: In the Flesh (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst, Argent family feels, Artist Derek, Bigotry & Prejudice, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Isolation, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Sexual Assault, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Stilinski Family Feels, Support Group, Zombie Apocalypse, hbic lydia, seriously buckets of angst, stiles and lydia are bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 100,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KouriArashi/pseuds/KouriArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Affirmation?” Deaton says.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>It takes effort for Stiles to squeeze it out, as it always does. “I am a partially deceased syndrome sufferer, and what I did in my untreated state is not my fault.”</i>
</p><p>An In the Flesh fusion wherein Stiles is a partially deceased syndrome sufferer coming home, Scott joined the HVF and took a level in badass, and Beacon Hills turns into a battle ground over reintegration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Teen Wolf/In the Flesh fusion, by which I mean that it's Teen Wolf characters in an ITF setting. No ITF characters will be appearing (which is a little sad, as they're awesome, we can assume that they're all having their own troubles on the other side of the pond).
> 
> For anyone who hasn't seen ITF (first of all you should as it's amazing), all you really need to know is that there was a zombie apocalypse (now called the Rising) which made a lot of people crawl out of their graves and attack humans. The government discovered a treatment for it (a medication called neurotriptyline) and labeled it "partially decreased syndrome". All PDS sufferers that could be were rounded up and put in institutions for treatment. Now the government is trying to send them back home, and a lot of people are not happy about it. Particularly the people in the HVF (Human Volunteer Force), who are the people who took up arms to defend their towns and families when the military was too busy with the uprising in major metropolitan areas to get to anyone else.
> 
> Story will definitely be triggery for angst overload, mentions of suicide, alcoholism, sexual assault, and murder. Geez. (But the story does start with a number of our faves partially dead - Stiles, Derek, Peter, Allison, all PDS sufferers. I'm not tagging it as main character death since, you know, they're still conscious and aware and have roles in the story.)
> 
> (Just in case you haven't read my stuff before, I use 'Tom' for Sheriff Stilinski's first name.)
> 
> Let me know if I missed anything. Enjoy!

Sheriff Stilinski is halfway through a bottle of whiskey when the phone rings.

He doesn’t twitch, doesn’t even look up. The phone rings all the time now, and he tends to ignore it. It’s never good news. He hasn’t had a piece of good news in months, and the last piece of good news he received, he’s starting to hate. That was the news that they had found a treatment for what they’re now calling Partially Deceased Syndrome. He remembers that day, and how he had clawed his way out of the bottle long enough to make it clear to the HVF that if anyone killed Stiles rather than capturing him to take to a treatment center, he would burn Beacon Hills to the ground.

But it was just one more grain of false hope, and the sheriff is sick of living in denial. That was six months ago. Lots of PDS sufferers have been found, but not Stiles. He could be dead – real dead, not partially dead. The HVF had killed a lot of the undead and never been overly particular about identifying the bodies. Then the news came in that neurotriptyline didn’t work on all the subjects, that sometimes they couldn’t be cured.

Then, almost as bad, the news that trying to reintegrate the PDS sufferers into society was becoming an absolute disaster. People who had been sent home had been forced into hiding. Some had been murdered on the street by angry mobs. There were riots and protests, including in Beacon Hills. Chris Argent, the leader of the Beacon Hills HVF, is particularly anti-PDS and has said that he will kill any PDS sufferer who comes in Beacon Hills without compunction. At the time, Stilinski had replied with, ‘if you touch my son, I’ll gut you’, and they had gotten into an argument so violent that it had taken half the deputies to break it up.

To a certain extent, the sheriff sympathizes with Chris, because he lost his wife during the Rising, and his daughter had gone missing a year before, so they’re actually very similar in many ways. But he won’t allow any harm to come to his son, dead or alive or undead.

Things like that don’t seem to matter as much anymore, though, because as the days turned to weeks turned to months, he stopped hoping that Stiles would be found. He spent less time at work and more time in a whiskey bottle, and stopped answering the phone when it rang. He was still the sheriff, so he was by law notified every time a PDS sufferer was found, or any time there was an incident, or any time anything happened. But he let all his calls go to voice mail these days. Sometimes he would check his messages, go down to the station, sign off on some forms. Nobody has the heart to vote him out of office. They just quietly pick up the slack.

This time things are different. The phone rings six times, turns over to voice mail, and goes silent. Then, almost immediately, it starts ringing again. Again, voice mail. And then again, ringing.

At that point, Sheriff Stilinski hauls himself out of his chair, stumbles over to the table where he’s left his phone, and picks it up. “Yeah, what,” he growls.

“Tom? It’s Parrish,” the deputy says. Sheriff Stilinski likes Parrish, he’s been invaluable during the last year. “Listen, we’ve got another PDS sufferer – ”

“Yeah, ‘kay,” Tom grunts, picking up the bottle. “Pack him off, I’ll be down in the – ”

“Tom, you need to – ”

“Morning to sign off on the damned – ”

“Tom, will you stop – ”

“Forms so you can get him transferred.” Sheriff Stilinski hits the ‘end’ button and drops the phone back onto the table. It starts ringing again. He sighs in exasperation and picks it up. “Jordan, for God’s sake – ”

“It’s your son,” Parrish says, before Tom can start talking over him. “Tom. It’s Stiles. They found Stiles.”

Tom nearly chokes. He has to catch himself on the edge of the table to keep from falling, and the phone falls from nerveless fingers. It takes him several long moments to put himself back together enough to pick it back up. Then he chokes out, “Is he – ”

“He’s rabid, still, don’t come down here to see him,” Parrish says. “Not like this. He wouldn’t want that and you know it. They’re coming to transfer him tonight as a special favor to you instead of waiting until morning. They’re going to take him up to the facility in Redding. They’ll take good care of him there.”

Tom has to concentrate on his breathing. “What if he – what if he doesn’t respond?”

Parrish answers this with the calm, soothing tone of someone who’s answered this question many times before. He’s been the one responsible for notifying families for over a year now. “They’ll know within forty-eight hours, Tom, and they’ll call me right away if there’s a problem. I have a friend up there who’s going to look out for him. Mandatory stay is six months, you know that, right?”

“Yeah.” The thought of waiting six months to see his son is unbearable. “I want – I want to see him. I’m coming – ”

“Tom, don’t,” Parrish says. “I mean that. Don’t. I mean, if nothing else, I’d hate to bust your ass for DUI, and don’t tell me that you haven’t been drinking because I can always tell when you’ve been drinking.”

“Yeah.” Tom pushes his hands through his hair. “Had he – had he hurt anybody?”

There’s just a brief pause. “Girl at the supermarket, name of Lydia Martin. She was still alive, though. They took her to the hospital. We’ll know more about her condition in the morning.”

“Okay.” Tom breathes out. His nerves are starting to settle. Parts of his brain that haven’t functioned in a long time are starting to creak back into gear. “Okay. I have to – ” He stops and forces himself to think. “Jordan, can you run things without me for a few days? A week or two, maybe?”

“Sure,” Parrish says, then amends, “probably. You’re not thinking of going up to Redding, are you?”

“No. I have to.” Tom fumbles around for a glass of water. “Have to go into rehab. Detox. It’s dangerous, you know, when you’re as . . . as far gone as I am. Alcohol withdrawal can kill you. And I need to – need to get myself back on the wagon. Stiles is coming home, and by God I’m going to protect him.”

“Okay,” Parrish says quietly. “Keep in touch.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

_One year later . . ._

 

“I don’t know, Dr. Deaton, I don’t think I’m ready,” Stiles says, focusing on the way his hands twisted and curled around each other while he spoke. Pale, dead looking hands, scars from the defensive wounds he had taken etched into his palms for eternity. “Please, I just think – I just don’t think I can go home yet.”

“That’s exactly how I know you’re ready,” Deaton says, which really makes Stiles want to punch him in the face. When he sees the look on his face, he sighs and folds his hands in front of himself. “Stiles. You’ve been here a year. At your six-month evaluation, I recommended another three months of inpatient care because you were still having a lot of trouble with side effects and flashbacks. At your nine-month evaluation, I recommended another three months because you seemed to want it so badly. But you’ve been here a year, Stiles, and I think I can safely say at this point that another three months, three years, three _decades_ isn’t going to make you feel any more ready to leave these walls.”

Stiles scowls at him because he’s right, of course he’s right, and there are absolutely zero arguments Stiles can make.

The thing is, being in the treatment facility is – easy.

He doesn’t have to pretend around these people. They didn’t know him before. They don’t know him as Stiles, the fidgety, mouthy, sarcastic teenager. They don’t know him as Stiles the hero, who died defending his friend. They don’t know him as Stiles the rabid zombie who had torn apart more than his fair share of human beings. They don’t know him at all, so he can sit in the corner and keep pretending that he doesn’t still exist, without anyone thinking it strange.

If he goes home, he’s going to need to _act_ , to _pretend_ , and he just doesn’t know that he’s up to that.

“Please, Dr. Deaton,” he finally says. “I can’t go back there.”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” Deaton says, his tone firm, although not unkind. He stamps the form. Approved. Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Stiles, I’m going to be honest with you, because you’re a smart kid and you can handle this. The government doesn’t have the money to maintain these facilities forever. Now that the number of rabid PDS sufferers has dropped to about five percent of what it used to be, they’re phasing them out. Two have already shut down; this one is closing at the end of the year. After that, the only one left in California is going to be the one down south, and trust me, you do not want to go there. And even that one is scheduled to be scaled down dramatically within the next two years. Reintegration is happening whether anyone likes it or not. And people who can’t reintegrate . . . they won’t be kept in facilities long-term. Let’s just put it that way.”

Stiles lets out another breath, and then nods. He looks up, nods again.

“Good,” Deaton says. “Affirmation?”

It takes effort to squeeze it out, as it always does. “I am a partially deceased syndrome sufferer, and what I did in my untreated state is not my fault.”

“Good. Here’s your prescription for neurotriptyline. Good for six months. You’ll have to follow up with a registered doctor who can make sure you’re filling your prescription properly. It’s all explained in your discharge papers, and I know that they’ve gone over them with your father in detail.” A little more gently, he says, “He’s really looking forward to seeing you, Stiles.”

No, he isn’t, Stiles thinks. His father is looking forward to seeing the sixteen-year-old who died in the woods that day. His father is looking forward to seeing someone who doesn’t exist anymore. But he doesn’t argue. There’s no point.

“In any case, there’s a local liaison,” Deaton says. “She’ll make sure you get it all sorted out. Your father mentioned that you know her, Melissa McCall?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, chewing nervously on his lower lip. “I was friends with her son . . . before. Scott.”

_// “Scott!” Stiles’ voice rose in alarm as Scott half-collapsed against a tree. He could hear the telltale wheeze in his friends’ breath, the whine of collapsing airways. Stiles chews on his lip and looks behind him, where he last saw the cougar. It can’t be far behind them, and Scott can’t run any more. “Scott, you stay – stay here, I’ll draw it off – ”_

_“No, Stiles, don’t – ” Scott protests, but Stiles has already shoved him down into the dirt and started running again._

_It’s not like in the movies, where he trips over a tree branch and rolls onto his back just in time to see the monster’s jaws closing in. It takes him from the side and behind, and he never sees it coming. He rolls, bounces, tries to fight back. He feels teeth sink into his hand, claws rake his chest with pain that explodes like a brightly burning star. He knows that he’s screaming, and then two claws catch the side of his throat. There’s a hot, sharp pain that whites out almost immediately._

_Stiles remembers thinking, distinctly, ‘oh shit’ and then, more distantly, ‘my dad is gonna be so pissed at me’._

_And then, nothing. //_

“Stiles?” Deaton says, and Stiles jumps.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Stiles all but whines. “The flashbacks, doc, they’re killer. Uh, no pun intended.”

“Your brain is reconnecting pathways, Stiles. You’re going to recover some memories.”

“Why do you always say that like it’s a good thing?” Stiles grumbles. He can’t be the only person in the facility who has flashbacks about their death as well as their after-death, but nobody talks about them. The people in his group therapy had died in a variety of gruesome ways. Three from illness, one in a skiing accident, one hit by a car, one drowned by a jealous ex-boyfriend. Nobody here has happy stories to tell.

_// The figure in front of him is holding a gun, but not firing. Its muzzle wobbles madly in Stiles’ vision in the darkened store, as he shuffles forward. He doesn’t care about it. He’s focused entirely on the warm, living body in front of him, the flesh that can provide him nourishment._

_“Scott, get down!” someone shouts, and there’s a flash of bright light, and the figure shuffling next to him drops to the floor. He must get away somehow, because he knows that wasn’t the end of it, far from it, but he doesn’t remember. If he’s grateful for anything, it’s that he didn’t have to see the face of the friend he nearly killed, after dying to save his life. //_

“Go on, then,” Dr. Deaton says gently. “Go give your forms to Ms. Morrell. She’ll get you all checked out and ready to go.”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles says, with a sigh. He leaves the office and the next person shuffles by him, and he heads down the hallway to Morrell’s office. She glances up and gives him a friendly smile, so he hands the papers over.

“Congratulations, Stiles,” she says. “You’ve worked hard for this. You should be proud.”

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbles. He waits at her desk as she disappears into the back. She comes back a few minutes later with a plastic bag that she hands over.

“You know, your dad has called _every day_ for the last two weeks to see if your discharge was still on schedule,” Morrell tells him.

Stiles manages a smile that even looks enthusiastic. “I’m really anxious to see him, too.”

Morrell gives him a smile in return. “Brown or blue?” she asks.

“Huh?” he replies.

“Did you have brown eyes or blue eyes?”

“Oh, uh, actually they were really sort of an amber color.”

“You’re in luck! This is my last pair of amber contacts,” Morrell says, setting down a box.

“Whoa, really?” Stiles asks.

“No. They’re brown.” Morrell pushes the box across the counter to him. “Good luck, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs and heads back to his room. His roommate had left a few days earlier, so he’s on his own. He upends the bag over the bed and sorts it out. His makeup kit, with his flesh-toned foundation and just slightly pink lipstick, along with the special gel that removes it at the end of the day. Like he has any idea what to do with makeup. Then the contact lenses, which he already hates merely because he doesn’t like the idea of poking his eyeball with his fingers.

The makeup seems particularly stupid to him because he’s got scars that just can’t be ignored. His throat is stapled together, for God’s sake. He’s never going to pass for anything but a zombie in public. So why bother with the stuff at all? He sighs and shoves it away. There’s a packet of paperwork, a box full of neurotriptyline and the dispenser, and then some clothes. Tears spring up in his eyes because he knows his father must have selected them and sent them specifically. It’s his Captain America T-shirt, a long-sleeved plaid overshirt, and a pair of jeans. He’s glad to have the T with the logo. He feels like he could use a little superhero power in his life. Pinned to the T-shirt is a note that says ‘can’t wait to see you’ in his father’s handwriting.

He sets it all aside.

One thing he _doesn’t_ love about the facility is the boredom. He has books, of course, they bring in tons of books. He’s a lot more well-read now than he was before. There are therapy sessions, both group and individual, and games. He had learned how to play chess and shogi and go, as well as a hundred card games. His first roommate had even taught him a few magic tricks, before he got released. There’s movies, but rarely anything good.

There’s no meal times, since they don’t have to eat, so he just shuffles around from place to place until it’s time to sleep. His alarm goes off at seven AM, and he knows that his discharge will be at eight, so he gets up and gets dressed. Studies himself in the mirror and starts to apply the foundation.

It’s the wrong color for him, several shades darker than his regular skin tone had been. It covers up his moles, too, and when he finally has it all on, he just looks . . . wrong. It took time, but he’s gotten used to the grayish white skin and pale eyes in the mirror. This looks like a complete stranger.

It takes several tries for him to get the contacts in, because he’s really a little squeamish about that sort of thing. Once they’re in, he looks normal again. Like a real sixteen-year-old boy. Sixteen forever. He hadn’t even finished growing yet. His hair was buzzed short for the summer and he had been thinking about letting it grow out, but hadn’t yet. Now it never will.

“Stiles?” There’s a tap on his door. One of the orderlies comes in. “Oh good, you’ve got your face on. Time to go, your dad is waiting.”

“Okay.” Stiles shoulders the small bag that has his discharge papers and his makeup kit in it. He walks down the hall of the too-bright, too-clean facility behind the orderly. His heart is in his mouth and his stomach is roller-coastering between his shoes and his throat. He’s about ready to bail when she pushes the door open and he sees his father standing in the courtyard just inside the facility’s main gate.

It’s not what he had expected. He realizes in that moment that he had thought, foolishly he supposes, that his father would be a mess. He knows his father, knows him really well, and he had figured that he had fallen apart. But if he had, he’s put himself back together now. He’s standing tall and strong, still well-muscled and slightly tanned, dressed in his uniform though without the jacket. There are no dark circles under his eyes, no hollowed cheeks, and no tears. He turns as he hears the door open, and that’s when Stiles sees it. It’s in his eyes, somehow, all the pain and suffering of the last few years, that a hundred pairs of contact lenses could never hide.

But there’s no hesitation, no fear as he strides over to Stiles and grabs him in one of those rib-crushing hugs. Stiles realizes in that moment that his father knows _exactly_ what he’s gone through, that there will be at least one person he doesn’t have to pretend around. He wraps his arm around his father’s shoulders, presses his face into his shirt, and squeezes as hard as he can.

It takes him a few minutes to clear his throat enough to speak without crying. “H-Hi, Dad,” he finally says.

“Hey, you,” Tom says, letting him go. He takes a step backward and then looks him over somewhat critically. “God, is that foundation one color fits all? You look like an Oompa-Loompa.”

Stiles breaks into laughter that’s half-hysterical. “I know, right? Couldn’t they find something better than Day-Glo Orange?”

“We’ll get you something better,” his father says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. He continues to study him. One finger traces down the scar, the staples holding Stiles’ neck together. “Jesus, kid,” he mutters, and shakes his head. “C’mon. Time and tide wait for no man. I’ve already signed all the paperwork, so let’s get moving.”

Stiles nods and follows his father outside. He hesitates before crossing the perimeter, and shudders when the gate closes behind him. He feels exposed, like a raw nerve. Tom can clearly tell, because as soon as they get in the car, he reaches out and grabs Stiles by the wrist. “I’m not going to let _anyone_ hurt you.”

Stiles swallows. “How . . . how bad is it?” he whispers.

Tom sighs, puts the car in gear, and starts driving. “How much do you know?”

“Not much. We don’t get the news. It’s pretty much always rumors, hearsay. I just heard that reintegration . . . isn’t going really well.”

His father lets out a slow breath. “If you want my honest opinion . . . it’s going about as well as could be expected. You don’t have to worry about hiding, Stiles. I’ve already told everyone that you’re coming home, and that I expect you’ll be safe and treated with respect in Beacon Hills. If anyone gives you any trouble, you come straight to me.”

“Okay, Dad,” Stiles says, wondering how anyone could give him trouble when he doesn’t plan on leaving the house ever again.

They’re both quiet a long time, while Sheriff Stilinski navigates the small town roads until he gets them back on the interstate. Stiles has questions, but he doesn’t know how to ask them. They haven’t spoken or even exchanged letters. It’s frowned upon, because the academics had noticed that it could slow down recovery and make PDS sufferers fearful of reintegration. This is literally the first time he’s spoken to his father since his casual, “I’m heading over to Scott’s!” the night he had been killed.

“Dad?” Stiles finally whispers. “What happened to the girl?”

Tom glances over. He knows better than to ask ‘what girl’. “Lydia. Her name is Lydia. She lived. She lost most of her leg below the knee. Got a good prosthetic though. Doesn’t seem to have slowed her down much.”

Stiles nods and wipes a tear away. The makeup doesn’t even smear, so at least it has that going for it. He’s glad she lived. That’s the attack he remembers the most clearly, which the doctors say is normal. The more recent attacks will be the easiest to recall. But he knows he killed others. He just doesn’t remember. He was rabid for almost eighteen months. He’s done the math. They’re not exactly given the information, but he managed to figure out the nutritional requirements of the undead. Even if he hadn’t killed people himself, he certainly ate them. He feels a little queasy.

“How’s Scott?” he finally asks.

Tom lets out a slow sigh. “I’m not gonna lie to you, kiddo. He took . . .” He has to stop and steel himself for the words. “He took your death pretty hard. Blamed himself. He was a mess even before the Rising. Then he joined the HVF, and . . . he’s changed a lot. But so have you, I gather. I think you two will be okay.”

“Yeah. I hope so.”

“You want to stop and get a bite to eat?” Tom changes the subject.

“Dad, I can’t eat,” Stiles reminds him.

“Well, I know you don’t _have_ to, but I thought . . . maybe there was something you missed. You know. Curly fries.”

“This is just an excuse for you to get curly fries,” Stiles accuses, falling back into the old patterns like nothing has changed. God. It’s been three years. Three _years_ since he sat in a car with his father like this. He wipes at his eyes again. Six months dead, eighteen months rabid, twelve months in therapy. “No, uh, seriously . . . eating would make me physically sick, so I, uh . . . I’ll pass. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”

“You could just chew it and spit it out.”

“That’s hella gross, Dad,” Stiles says, although not without humor. “Anyway, my taste buds are as dead as the rest of me, so . . .”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Stiles stares out the window. It isn’t fine. It’s nothing even _resembling_ fine. How is he supposed to exist for eternity without being able to have a chocolate milkshake or a cheeseburger? How is any of this _fair_?

The silence is starting to get painful, so Tom says, “How about some music?” and then fills the car with Credence Clearwater. Stiles closes his eyes and lets things tune out for a little while. The drive is about ninety minutes. He’s jolted from his reverie when the car slows and he hears his father mutter, “Hell. I _told_ that asshole . . .”

“What asshole?” Stiles asks, jerking upright. He looks up to see that there’s a roadblock up ahead.

“Nothing. It’s fine, Stiles, just . . . relax.” Tom pulls up alongside the barrier and rolls the window down. A light rain is falling, but it doesn’t seem to be bothering the man standing there. It’s hard to judge his age, because he’s got a weathered, haunted look about him. Hair that had once been brown is now heavily salted with gray, and his narrow face looks pinched and angry. He’s wearing fatigues and an armband that says ‘HVF’. Tom keeps a casual tone. “Hey, Chris. I thought I told you this wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Gotta keep the patrols up, Sheriff,” Chris says, with a brusque nod. “Still rotters in the woods, you know.”

“Thought we had a talk about that word, too,” Tom says, his voice steely and cold.

“Dad, it’s fine,” Stiles says quietly.

“So this must be your son Stiles,” Chris says, leaning down so he can peer in the window.

“Yes to the second, and no to the first,” Tom says. “It’s _not_ fine. I don’t want to hear you using that word again. About my son or anyone else. Am I clear?”

Chris doesn’t so much as evade as he does ignore. “You have a good day, Sheriff,” he says, and shoulders his impressive looking rifle as he walks away. A few moments later, that barricade is pulled aside and Tom drives the cruiser through.

“Who was that?” Stiles asks quietly.

“Chris Argent,” Tom says. “Former military, and the only surviving founding member of Beacon Hills’ chapter of the HVF.” He lets out a slow breath. “Don’t get me wrong, Stiles. Chris Argent was an invaluable resource during the Rising. He saved the lives of countless civilians. He helped hold this town together at times that I . . . wasn’t good for as much as I should have been. But he doesn’t believe that PDS sufferers should be allowed to reintegrate. He thinks that it’s too dangerous.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Stiles says, studying his hands.

He expects his father to argue or get angry. But instead, Tom says, “Maybe he is. But you deserve a chance to prove him wrong.” He pulls onto their street and parks the Cruiser in the driveway. Stiles gets out of the car and slowly looks around. He wishes his sense of smell was better. He wonders if Beacon Hills still smells the same, although he couldn’t put into words how it smelled. It’s dimmer than it used to be, somehow _greyer_. A lot of the houses on their street are boarded up and empty. He suppresses a shudder and follows his father inside.

“Gonna make a quick call,” Tom says, taking out his phone and hitting a few buttons. “Hey, Jordan, it’s me. Made it back all right . . . yeah, I know. No, he’s fine . . . Chris Argent has that damned perimeter barrier set up again. Okay. Yeah, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hangs up, looks at Stiles, and forces a smile. “Well, you may not eat, but I still do, so I’m going to make myself a sandwich. Why don’t you go put your stuff upstairs?”

“Sure, okay.” Stiles troops up the stairs and hesitates outside the door of his room. He knows, _knows_ , that going through this door is like going to be like going back in time. That everything inside is going to be just like he left it that day. That it will be like the last three years never happened, no death, no Rising, no blood on his hands –

He finds himself sitting in the hallway, breath coming rapid and shallow, hands pressed against his face. The idea of going through that door is making everything from head to toe want to vomit, and he can’t even do that anymore. He’s not aware of the high-pitched whimpering noises he’s making until his father is kneeling beside him, clutching at his hand.

“Easy, easy,” Tom murmurs. “It’s okay, Stiles, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Stiles sobs. “I can’t, Daddy. I can’t go in there. It’ll be like before but it _isn’t_ , nothing’s like before, everything’s gone all wrong and it’s _not_ okay, it’ll _never_ be okay, nothing will ever be okay again – ”

“Shh, shh,” his father says, rocking him back and forth. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” He hugs him tighter. “I’ve got you.”

It takes a long time for Stiles to calm down, and when he does, his eyes are burning. Without thinking, he reaches up and blinks those godawful contacts out. Then he wipes at his face. “Sorry, I – ” He looks up at his father, who flinches. “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry – my eyes, I forgot, I’m just not used to these – ”

“No. It’s okay.” Tom puts his hand under Stiles’ chin and tilts his face up. Stiles’ eyelids flutter shut. “C’mon, it’s okay. Open up. Let me see.”

Stiles hesitantly opens his eyes, revealing the pale grey irises. Tom doesn’t grimace this time, but just look at him steadily. He thumbs some of the tears off Stiles’ cheeks. It still doesn’t smear the makeup, and Tom says, “What’s this stuff made of, shellac?”

That gets Stiles to laugh. He leans against his father and lets Tom hug him tightly. “Thanks,” he says.

Tom hugs him tighter. “You are my son,” he says, “and I thought I had lost you forever, but you’re back. And I don’t care if your eyes are brown or grey or shooting weird laser beams like in your comic books. If you don’t want to wear the contacts, don’t. If you don’t want to wear the makeup, don’t. And if you don’t want to go in your room, don’t. You can sleep in the guest room until we’ve – cleaned this out. Okay?”

Stiles nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

“Good.” Tom thumps him on the back and then lets him go. “How about we go watch a movie? You missed some pretty good flicks while you were gone.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says again. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's a whole bunch more characters! Hello, bunch more characters!
> 
> Should have mentioned - this is a werewolf free 'verse. Everyone is/was human (before they were zombies). Playing a little fast and loose with the Hale family history to make it compatible and have everyone where I need them. ^_^

A quick knock on the door jolts Stiles out of the reverie he’s sunk into while catching up on three seasons of Law and Order with his father. He can feel his father go instantly tense, but then there’s the rattle of keys, and he relaxes. “I gave Melissa a set of keys,” he says. “You know, just in case.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, fighting the urge to run the hell away. He doesn’t want to see Melissa, and if Scott’s with her, he’s going to – he’s not sure what. But it’ll be drastic, whatever it is.

Fortunately for his sanity, Melissa comes in by herself. She looks much the same, a little tired and careworn, with a few wrinkles that weren’t there before, but overall unchanged. She’s wearing purple scrubs and sneakers. “Stiles!” she says, and immediately walks right to him, getting him in a hug. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, resisting the urge to burrow into it.

She lets him go and sets a box down on their kitchen table. “Now, I know that you’ve gone over all this stuff before, but I’m going to do it one more time, because that’s my job,” she says, and launches into a practiced spiel about PDS, what it is, how it works, the precautions they need to take. Stiles tunes it out because he knows it all.

Melissa takes out the neurotriptyline dispenser and shows Tom how to load the dose into it. This much, he knows. The next part is new. Stiles leans over the table, already feeling his stomach clench, so his father can pull down the back collar of his T-shirt to see the dime-sized black spot where his skin has been cut away so the injection can be given directly into his spinal cord.

“Like this?” Tom asks, and Stiles is braced for it, braced for it, but no matter how much bracing he does, it’s never enough. He hisses in pain and his body jerks helplessly when his father gives the injection. “Shit. You okay, did I – ”

“Not your fault,” Stiles manages, between clenched teeth. “It’s always like that.”

“Really? God, that’s awful,” Tom says.

Stiles gets his breathing evened out. “Yeah, it’s only a minute. I can handle it.”

“Yeah, but to do that every day – ”

“Dad, it’s fine,” Stiles says.

To change the subject a little, Melissa says, “I know they’ve been doing some research on whether or not they can make a longer-lasting form of it, so maybe the injections can be given once a month or so, but it’s still in development right now.” She squeezes Stiles’ hand and says, “So it might not be forever, right?”

Everything is forever now, Stiles thinks, but he just nods and gives her a wan smile.

“One more thing,” she says, and pulls out a little flier. “There are two support groups in Beacon Hills that you might be interested in. I actually highly recommend you attend at least once or twice, just to get a feel for it. This is a lot to deal with, so don’t be ashamed of feeling like you need some help. Anyway – there’s one for PDS sufferers, and then one for PDS caretakers.”

Stiles’ head jerks up. “I thought I was the only PDS sufferer living in Beacon Hills.”

“No,” Melissa says, “you’re the only PDS sufferer living _openly_ in Beacon Hills.”

“Shit, really?” Tom clearly wasn’t aware of this either. “How many?”

“I’m not allowed to give out any information about it,” Melissa says, somewhat apologetically. “You’ll have to come to the support group and see who’s there.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and then looks over at her, frowning. “Hey, wait. You – are you using my curiosity as a way to get me to go to the support group?”

Melissa laughs, reaches out, and gives him a hug. “See, you haven’t changed _that_ much,” she teases, then gives Tom a hug as well.

Stiles swallows hard and forces himself to ask, he _has_ to ask, no matter what, he has to know. “How – how’s Scott?”

Melissa gives him a somewhat melancholy look. “He’s doing okay, Stiles. He’s been through a lot, and I think it’s going to take some time before he’s ready to see you. But he knows that you’re back, and I’ll tell him that I’ve been to see you and that you seem at least mostly like your old self. Just give him some time.”

“Yeah.” Stiles nods mechanically. “Okay. Tell him – tell him I said hi,” he says, because there’s so much he should be saying that he doesn’t want to pass it through Melissa.

“I will,” Melissa promises, and then takes off.

Tom watches him for a few minutes, then says, “Another episode?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and curls up against his father’s shoulder. “That sounds good.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The sun has just set when Scott finishes up his patrol, and he heads to the Beacon Hills Tavern to check in. The bar had become the HVF headquarters during the worst of the Rising, owned and operated by one of the lieutenants. Now the Rising is over, and it’s back to serving drinks, but old habits die hard. He glances around as he walks inside. There are a few patrons sitting at tables, and he spots Chris Argent and a couple of the other HVF members sitting near the bar.

“Hey,” he says, going up to the bar. “Can I get a Coke?”

“Sure.” The bartender, an older woman named Sally, turns to the soda fountain behind her and comes back with Scott’s drink. “One twenty-nine.”

Scott pauses with his hand on the glass. “Seriously?”

“Free refills,” she says, as if she doesn’t know why she’s protesting.

“Free everything,” Scott says. He hears noise at Chris’ table, and his sometimes-girlfriend, Kira, walks up beside him.

“Sorry, hon,” the bartender says. “We ended that policy this past weekend.”

“Are you kidding me?” Scott asks. “Do you seriously think I have money? I dropped out of school to devote my life to saving your asses, I don’t have a fucking job – ”

“I’ll cover it,” Kira says hastily, dropping a five dollar bill on the counter. “Can I get an iced tea, Sally?”

“Sure.”

“Kira, that isn’t the point – ” Scott says, as the woman takes the money and makes their change and Kira’s drink, and then Kira has him by the arm and is drawing him over to their table. “What the actual fuck,” Scott fumes.

Chris raises his beer to Scott and says, “And this is just the beginning. Now that they’re bringing the rotters back in, they’re talking about disbanding the HVF entirely. Telling us we can’t wear our armbands. Telling us that we should be _ashamed_ of what we did during the Rising.”

“Nobody is saying that,” Kira says.

“That’s exactly what they’re saying,” Chris says. “All this talk of how these people are just suffering from a disease. Making it sound like we were the ones killing innocents. Like we shouldn’t have done it because they couldn’t help themselves.”

Scott says nothing.

Chris takes another drink and gives him a look. “I hear your friend Stiles is back in town.”

“Stiles is dead,” Scott bites out viciously.

Chris gives an approving nod. “Good. Glad to see that someone else in this town hasn’t fallen victim to all the propaganda.” He quaffs his beer and says, “Anything to report from your patrol?”

Scott shakes his head. “Everything’s quiet.”

“Okay.” Chris starts to talk about shifts for the next few days. Scott tunes him out. He’ll take whatever shift he’s assigned, without complaint.

Melissa has mentioned, gently, that maybe he should think about going back to school. She hadn’t argued when he had dropped out to join the HVF. She had supported him one hundred percent. And she had been in the HVF too, albeit as a medic, not a combatant. They all did what they had to do to survive. And he had made good friends there, people who understood him, like Kira, who had lost her mother to a rotter. Like Vernon Boyd, whose sister had disappeared during the Rising. Like Jackson Whittemore, whose girlfriend had been Stiles’ last victim.

Scott still can’t think about Stiles without being sick. He can’t think about Stiles without remembering the supply run he had made with two others, that had ended in him staring down the end of his gun at Stiles as his former friend helped tear someone else apart. He hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. People had died because of that.

He finishes his soda, thinking back to the conversation he’d had with his mother earlier that day. She had gone over to the Stilinskis, she said, and checked in on Stiles. He was obviously pretty traumatized by everything that had happened, she said, but overall he seemed to be doing well. She hadn’t told him to go see Stiles. She knows he’s not ready for that. She had mentioned that Stiles had asked how he was.

How was he, he wonders. What could his mother possibly have told him?

Stiles is dead, he thinks. The Stiles he knew, the Stiles who had stupidly run into the forest to challenge a mountain lion, is dead. And the Scott he had died saving is just as dead. Neither of them exist anymore.

“Hey,” Kira says softly. “Walk me home?”

“Sure,” Scott says.

He wasn’t sure how to describe his relationship with Kira. It was something more than friends, but they had both agreed that they weren’t looking for anything serious. Too much was going on. They were both too damaged. The sex was good, but it was a physical outlet for all the tension that was constantly underneath their skin, nothing more.

Now that things were changing, Kira had made a few comments that maybe, someday, this could be something. Scott didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree, either. He didn’t see how he could ever be with anyone, not really, and give them the sort of the life they deserved. Kira is recovering. She mourns her mother, but she’s stopped doing patrols unless Chris specifically asks her to. She’s taking online classes and talking about getting a degree in psychology and becoming a counselor.

For Kira, the Rising is over.

For Scott, it isn’t. There’s always a part of him standing in that dim hallway, watching Stiles at the end of his gun. It never goes away.

“What are you thinking about?” Kira asks, taking his hand as they walk down the street.

“My mother wants me to go see Stiles,” he says. “She hasn’t said so, but I know she does.”

Kira nods. “Do you want to?”

“What would be the point?” Scott asks. “Stiles is dead, okay? Because I know Stiles, I – I _knew_ Stiles. This, whatever they’re trying to parade around in his body, it’s not _him_. He’s gone. And I wish everyone would stop shoving that down my fucking throat.”

“Don’t – don’t do that,” Kira says, squeezing his hand. “Look, I know that none of us will talk about this in front of Chris because, let’s face it, he’s kind of got some screws loose. Which, okay, who wouldn’t, right? But you know that the whole ‘imposter’ thing isn’t true.” She’s quiet for a minute, and they walk without speaking. Finally, she says, “You’re angry with him, aren’t you.”

Scott nearly chokes on the reply that wants to bubble out of his mouth. “Yeah,” he finally says.

“I know,” she says, and squeezes his hand again. “I was angry at my mother for a long time, too. Dying for someone else – it’s so selfless but so selfish at the same time. A weird paradox, right? Because they get to be dead, and they don’t think about how hard it’s going to be for the person they leave behind.”

“We – we could have made it,” Scott says. “I think that every night. That we could have made it if we’d stuck together, but he – ”

Kira stops walking and pulls him into a tight embrace. “It’s okay if you’re angry with him, Scott. And it’s okay if you’re not ready to see him. Just don’t lie to yourself about the reasons why. Okay?”

“Yeah.” Scott leans his face against her shoulder. “Okay.”

She lets him go after a minute, pressing her forehead against his. “You wanna come inside?” she asks.

“Okay,” Scott says, trying to smile. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles isn’t sure what to expect as he pokes his head into the small conference room at the hospital. An empty room, really, more than anything else. But it’s not empty; in fact, there are more people than he would have thought. Half a dozen people are milling around the table, including two his own age, and he balks in the doorway.

He recognizes one of them instantly. Isaac Lahey, a kid in his grade who had died about a month before him. It’s vivid in his memory even after so much time because his father had been bitterly angry that there hadn’t been enough evidence to charge Isaac’s father with murder. He had been sure that the injuries hadn’t come from a fall, as claimed, but had been more deliberate. Sudden questions bloom in Stiles’ head that had never occurred to him before, about whether or not PDS sufferers could give testimony about their own murders. He shelves that for now.

There’s another teenager, a girl, and then four adults. One of them is a man he’s never met before, but instantly knows by reputation because of the burn scars all over his face. Peter Hale. He’s scorned the flesh-toned makeup, and his skin is pale grey with patches of bluish scar tissue.

Everybody in Beacon Hills knows the tragic story of the Hale family. Talia Hale had been a local artist, living with her brother and his wife, her husband, his sister and her husband, and a brood of children. Then about a year before Stiles had died, there had been a fire that had killed all but three of them. Two of Talia’s daughters, Laura and Cora, had been out of the house. Peter had been the lone survivor inside.

Laura had been twenty-three, old enough to adopt Cora, and Peter had gone on a downward spiral that had been both public and painful. Stiles knows that his father had arrested Peter three separate times, twice for disorderly conduct and once for assault, and finally Peter had wrapped his car around a tree, killing himself in the process. The only blessing about it, Tom had said at the time, was that nobody else had been hurt in the accident.

Peter is the only one not wearing the makeup. Stiles has the flesh-tone on, but not the contacts. They just irritate his eyes too much. He’s surprised to see that he’s not the only one with that problem. Next to Peter is standing a young man probably a few years older than Stiles, who’s superhumanly gorgeous, with black hair and a fair amount of stubble on his chin. When he looks up at Stiles, Stiles sees that he also has the pale grey irises with no attempt made to hide them.

“Stiles, come in,” Peter says, glancing over at him. “Melissa told us to expect you.”

Stiles edges his way into the room and closes the door behind him. “Uh, hi,” he says, gaze flickering around the room. The others are settling into seats around the room. He sits down in the one closest to the door.

“Well, since we have a new member, shall we all introduce ourselves?” Peter asks. Stiles sees the young man he was standing with roll his eyes a little and gets the definite impression that Peter likes to tell people what to do. “I’m Peter Hale, and I died in a car accident. I’ve been back in Beacon Hills about three months.”

The man next to him heaves a sigh, but his gaze flickers to Stiles when he speaks. “Derek Hale. Died in the fire. Just got back two weeks ago.”

The woman sitting next to him has long, dark hair, and she’s pretty in an average sort of way. “My name’s Jennifer Blake,” she says. “I was integrated about six weeks ago.”

“I’m Erica,” the teenager next to her says. “Been back about a month now. I had an epileptic seizure in the shower, cracked my head open on the way down.” To Stiles, she adds in an almost conspiratorial tone, “That is exactly as embarrassing a way to go as you think it is.”

Isaac glances up, rubs one hand up and down his arm nervously, and says, “I’m Isaac. I got back about a month ago, too.”

Next to Isaac is Garrett Meyers, who died of a heart attack, and has been back two months. Then it’s Stiles’ turn, and he’s not ready, but he licks his lips nervously and says, “Uh. I’m Stiles. Mountain lion. Just got back last week.”

“How are you settling in?” Peter asks him.

“Okay, I guess.”

“Have you been out at all?” Erica asks. “I mean, we can’t go out, or at least my parents won’t let me, but it’s different for you. How are people reacting?”

“I haven’t . . .” Stiles’ voice trails off.

It’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable with the topic, and Derek leaps in to save him. “Cora says more people have been bothering her when she goes out lately. I think some people are starting to suspect that we’ve been integrated without anyone being told . . .”

This gets them onto a discussion of interacting with their caretakers, which Stiles actually finds pretty interesting. Erica is living with her parents, and Isaac has an older brother who had been in the military and come back to join the HVF, who’s taking care of him. Garrett lives with his daughter. But Stiles is surprised to find that the other three don’t have caretakers, per se.

“I thought we had to live with someone,” he says.

Peter shakes his head. “No, as long as we’ve passed all our tests, so to speak. As long as someone is available to give us the injections.”

“Melissa comes by my place to give me mine,” Jennifer says.

“And Derek and I do each other the favor,” Peter says. “I think he enjoys sticking a needle in my spine, really.”

“Who wouldn’t,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

A couple of people laugh, and Stiles sits there and _hates_ them, with a vehemence that startles himself. He hates how comfortable they are with each other, how they can sit and talk and laugh like they aren’t _dead_ , like they didn’t _kill_ people, like everything isn’t terrible. He withdraws into himself, staring off at a fixed point, and lets the meeting take place around him. He’s startled when the people around him start moving, and he hears Jennifer say, “See you next week,” and the door to the hallway is opened.

“You okay?” It’s Derek, and he’s so close to Stiles that Stiles startles. “You zoned out, huh?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I just . . .”

Derek is studying him intensely. “Don’t want to be here?” he says, and Stiles ducks his head. “Me neither, if we’re going to be honest,” Derek continues, with a shrug. “Peter insisted I come. Not that he’s one for therapy. He just likes being in charge of something.”

That makes Stiles smile despite himself, glancing over to Peter, who’s patting Isaac on the back as he leaves, which makes Isaac give him a nervous look. “Hey . . . can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Derek says.

“Why don’t you wear the contacts?”

Derek scowls a little. “They’re not the right color,” he says. “Blue or brown, are you kidding me? My eyes were hazel. They gave me blue. Seeing myself in those . . . it was even worse than this.” He waves at his face. “You?”

“They irritate my eyes,” Stiles says, “but . . . same thing. My eyes were brown, but they were light brown. With the contacts in, I can’t even see my pupils. It’s weird.”

“You have to understand the purpose of the makeup.” Peter, having seen the others off, walks back over. “It isn’t for _our_ benefit. Lord no. It’s so other people don’t have to be uncomfortable, looking at us. That’s why I refuse to wear it.”

“Yeah, which really matters since we never leave the property except for the support meetings, and never see anybody,” Derek grumbles.

Peter gives a shrug. “You know what we’ve been waiting for.” He looks at Stiles and says, “Frankly, it’s you.”

“You – you’ve been waiting for me?” Stiles asks nervously.

Peter nods. “Three months ago, just after I got back – and I was the first – they thought you might be discharged. And your father, the sheriff, was very, very firm and vocal about the fact that he had no intention of hiding you away. Protecting you, yes. But he said you would be free to go where you wanted, not kept under house arrest, and anyone who had a problem with that had a problem with him.”

Stiles chews on his lower lip. “Okay, so?” he says.

“So, we’re all waiting to see how your reintegration goes, before we try our own,” Peter says. “A few months living – so to speak – under house arrest isn’t a big deal when you’re this strange version of immortal. If you’re able to walk the streets without incident, the rest of us will give it a try, too. That’s why Erica was so eager to know if you had been out and how people had reacted to you.”

“I guess I’m not helping much,” Stiles says.

“You’ve been back three days,” Derek says. “Don’t let the others rush you into anything.”

At this, Stiles manages a little smile. “Thanks. Really. I mean, I don’t want to spend the rest of my unlife at the house, but . . . on our way into town yesterday, there were soldiers, and barriers, and I’m kind of freaked out for a huge variety of reasons.”

“Things were very bad here,” Peter says. “Beacon Hills was near the epicenter of the Rising. They were nearly overrun. It’s amazing this place isn’t a ghost town. In any case, it’s hard for them to let go of that. There isn’t a single person living here who didn’t lose someone to us rotters.” He uses the epithet casually, without flinching. “Some people understand, some don’t. In any case, when I leave the house – whether that’s next week or next year – I’m not going to wear this makeup and pretend I’m something I’m not.”

“I just don’t see the point,” Stiles says, and runs his finger along the stapled scar on his neck. “It’s not like I can pass for living.”

“It is a little different for you, admittedly,” Peter says. “And I’m instantly recognizable,” he adds, gesturing to his own scars. “So I agree.”

“You don’t have scars, though,” Stiles says to Derek, and then realizes how insensitive that could be when the older boy arches his eyebrows at him. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry, I just – ”

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “I managed to wedge myself into a closet where the flames never reached. I died of smoke inhalation.”

“So he kept his pretty face, isn’t that nice?” Peter asks, smiling at his nephew. Derek rolls his eyes. Then Peter glances up as the door eases open. “Sheriff Stilinski, we were just talking about you.”

Tom gives him a nod, then gets an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and gives him a squeeze. “How’d it go?”

“I hated it,” Stiles says, and Derek gives a snort of laughter. “Apparently they’re all waiting to see how many people try to stone me back to death before they venture outside of their own homes.”

Tom grimaces, then says, “I wish I could be angry about that, but it _is_ a sensible idea. We – ”

“Why’d you have to tell anyone?” Stiles asks abruptly. “Why did you tell people I was coming home? Why couldn’t I just, just hide, like they do? Now everyone’s depending on me and I, I’m not ready, I can’t just walk down the street like I’m a normal person, why did you have to tell, why couldn’t you just keep me a secret – ”

“Hey,” Tom says, getting Stiles’ chin in his fingers. “You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of, and I don’t want you thinking that you do.”

“But why didn’t you let me make that choice?” Stiles asks. “You didn’t even ask me!”

Tom blinks, taken aback. He rubs a hand over the back of his head and says, “Well, you – you’re right. I didn’t think of it. I thought – you shouldn’t have to hide. But I should have talked to you about it, and I didn’t. I guess I was just so happy that you were coming home, that I wanted everybody to know.”

Stiles deflates at that, and lets his weight rest against his father’s reassuring bulk. “I just – I’m not ready,” he repeats.

“You don’t have to be,” Tom says firmly. “Don’t let anyone make you do anything you don’t want to. Okay?”

“I feel like I’m letting them down.”

“You’ve been home three days,” Tom reminds him. “Nobody thought it would be easy. Besides, we’ll at least get an initial read on how people are going to react by how they’re reacting to me. Which is split about fifty-fifty,” he adds, directing this mostly towards Peter, “between people asking how Stiles is and how he’s feeling, and people that I’m pretty sure are making the evil eye symbol behind my back.”

“Better than it could be,” Peter says. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see if anyone breaks into your house and tries to kill you in your sleep.”

“Always the reassuring one,” Derek says, rolling his eyes.

Peter wants to ask Tom a few questions about how the laws are being implemented, so Tom draws him aside. Stiles is left standing there with Derek, feeling tired and miserable. “Do you have a phone?” Derek asks him.

“What? Oh, yeah.” His father had presented him with a brand new phone the day after he got home, and he fishes it out. “Why?”

Derek takes it out of his hand and starts tapping the screen. “Call me if you need anything, okay? Even if it’s just to talk.”

Stiles takes the phone back and curls his hand around it. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Derek says, not looking at him. “We’ve got to stick together, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs. He walks over to his father, who puts an arm around his shoulders again, and pulls him out of the hospital. They’re down in the car, heading home, a few minutes later.

When they get there, someone has painted ‘death to rotters’ across their garage door in red paint. Stiles stands in the driveway and just studies it for a long minute while his father takes out his cell phone and dials the police station, making angry comments about vandalism and hate crimes.

“Well,” Stiles says, mostly to himself, “I guess that answers that question.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	3. Chapter 3

 

The truth is, Stiles doesn’t really care that someone vandalized their garage door.

The death threats, however, he could do without.

While his father is outside talking to Parrish, the phone rings. He walks over, looks at it somewhat nervously, and then decides to answer. What the hell, right? Everybody knows that he’s home. So he picks it up and says, “Hello?”

“Is this Stiles Stilinski?” The voice is low, gruff, masculine. Not anybody he knows.

“Uh, yeah, it is,” he says.

“You don’t know me,” the voice continues, “but you will soon, because I’m going to be the one who kills you. Only you won’t come back this time. Not after I’m done taking your head right off your – ”

Stiles hangs up. His body is trembling. He has to take a few deep breaths. He’s still standing there when his father comes back in. He’s talking over his shoulder as he walks in, saying, “ – got all that set up last week, so it should have – hey, you okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says. “What did you get set up?”

Tom gives him a somewhat suspicious look, but doesn’t push. “The surveillance system,” he says. “Oh, Stiles, you didn’t meet – this is Jordan Parrish, one of my deputies. Came on about six months after you – Jordan, this is my son, Stiles.”

“Nice to meet you,” Parrish says, and he doesn’t flinch away at the chill of Stiles’ hand, or the grey eyes. “How are you holding up?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’ve had worse days,” he says, and Parrish looks somewhat amused. Tom shakes his head at his son, then gets out his laptop and starts typing. A few minutes later, a video starts playing that shows their driveway and garage.

“On the back of the mailbox,” Tom says, when he sees Stiles open his mouth to ask. “I kind of figured vandalism might be a problem.” He hits fast forward and the video starts to play at high speed. A minute later, he stops it as someone comes onscreen. It’s a boy a few years older than Stiles currently appears.

“That’s Jackson Whittemore,” Parrish says, and sighs. “No real surprise there. I’ll go pick him up.”

“Don’t – ” Stiles blurts out, and then swallows hard when both men turn to look at him, a little startled. “Don’t be too hard on him, okay? Please?”

Parrish glances at Tom. The sheriff gives a little sigh. “Why don’t you pick him up, explain to him that this kind of behavior won’t be tolerated, and that if he does anything like this again, charges will be pressed. Whether Stiles wants it or not.” To his son, he adds, “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. It seems fair to him. “Okay.”

“All right,” Parrish agrees, and departs.

Tom sighs again. “Look, I’m going to run down to Ace and grab a few cans of paint so we can paint over that crap. You just hang out here. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says again. His father gives him a quick hug and then departs. Stiles grabs a book to keep himself preoccupied, and sinks onto the sofa.

Five minutes later, the phone rings again. This time, Stiles doesn’t answer it. It goes to voicemail, and the same voice starts talking again. “I just want you to know that we’re not going to put up with you being here,” he says. “You’re a murderer. You don’t deserve to be here. You can keep hiding in your daddy’s shadow for now, but eventually you’ll have to leave it. And when you do . . . I’ll be there.”

There’s a click. Stiles gets up, walks over, and deletes the message. Then he sits back down, pulling his knees up to his chest, and waits for his father to come home.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris wakes up at exactly 5:59 AM every day, without the help of his alarm clock, which is set for six. It’s ingrained from years of military service. He had served for nearly twenty years, starting when he was eighteen. He hadn’t been on active duty for all of it, but he had seen plenty of combat. He had finally come home for good just after Allison’s tenth birthday.

After that, he had worked in private security, weapons, contracting. They’d had a good life. He knows that all this experience is what kept him alive during the Rising, and kept a lot of other people alive, too. They had been promised help from the military, from the government, for weeks. “Stay in your homes,” they had been urged. “Help is on the way,” they had been told.

But help had never come, and when the rotters started breaking into houses to attack people, Chris knew they had to do something.

What had eventually been deemed the Human Volunteer Force had started with him, his wife, and two other former military people who lived in Beacon Hills. They had recruited, gotten weapons, ammunition, tools. They had run patrols and secured perimeters and killed rotters. So many of them that sometimes Chris is honestly surprised he still doesn’t have their black, crusted blood under his fingernails.

Finding out that the rotters could be turned back, at least enough to make them rational again, had gotten mixed reactions from the HVF. People who had friends or loved ones who had turned rabid were overjoyed by the notion that they might be reunited with their deceased loved ones. But Chris didn’t feel the same way. It hurt morale, to learn that the rotters they had killed could have been saved.

“We did what we had to do,” he said, “and we’ll keep doing it.”

Secondly, it was a lot harder to capture one than it was to kill it. The government started handing out monetary incentives, but Chris wasn’t really interested in that. He just wanted to keep his town safe.

Now that the Rising is over, the politicians said, things are going to be different. 

What they don’t seem to understand is that it isn’t over. That there are still towns full of people who are terrified to leave their houses. That there are still dozens of rabid rotters wandering around in the woods. And even one can do a lot of damage, if it makes it into town. They’re faster than they look, and stronger than a human, and they don’t get tired, don’t feel pain.

Chris gets out of bed. His morning routine has been the same for years now. He starts with his exercise regimen. Pull-ups, push-ups, aerobics. He hits the gym three times a week for weights. Then he showers, shaves, gets dressed in a plain T-shirt and fatigue pants. He eats a bowl of cereal with fruit and Greek yogurt, which his wife had gotten him hooked on, with two cups of coffee.

The apartment he’s lived in since the Rising is only two rooms, and doesn’t have a bathtub or a full kitchen. It doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t cook much. He’s hardly there, in fact. The HVF doesn’t pay, and he spent nearly all of his own money in the first few months after the Rising, to get weapons and ammunition for the town. He’ll be reimbursed, the politicians keep saying. Eventually. It goes through channels.

Chris is well acquainted with government bureaucracy, and he isn’t holding his breath.

The apartment is one of about a dozen in a small building near the community college campus, and the man who owns it lets Chris live there for free, out of respect for his service in the HVF. Similarly, the grocery store and the gas station don’t charge him. He can get what he needs to live without issue. He doesn’t think of it as charity. Just the town repaying its debt to him.

In any case, he has absolutely no desire to live in the house he lived with his wife and daughter.

Once he’s done with breakfast, he checks his messages. He knows that his phone will wake him if anyone calls, so his men usually text to let him know how their night and/or early morning patrols have gone. The HVF is about a dozen people now who take regular shifts, along with another two dozen who will come when called. It’s not as many as he would like, but it’s enough, at least for now.

He’s got three, all from night patrols reporting in, no activity. He also has a text from his sister Kate, just checking in. She lives in Arizona, heads up her own branch of the HVF there and made quite a name for herself, but they’ve kept in touch. She’s not any happier about reintegration than he is. They’ve organized a few protests together. The last time he saw her was nearly six months previous, when they’d met for a beer in LA. He texts her back, but only to mention he’ll call her later. He wants to talk to her about the situation in Beacon Hills, and get her advice. She won’t be up yet, though. She’s always been a night owl, the exact opposite of him.

Then he puts down his phone and turns the television on to watch the seven o’clock news. The lead story is a riot that happened in Los Angeles, following an announcement that a judge had overturned the idea of making what’s been called the ‘rotter registry’ open to the public. The government has a system in place to keep track of the PDS sufferers, they’ve said, and to let anyone view the list is asking for those people to be persecuted. A harried-looking lawyer is shown pushing his way through crowds to his car, as people throw things at him.

Chris approved of the idea of the registry, but he knew it wouldn’t fly. He suspects that there were already rotters living in Beacon Hills, which makes him furious. But as long as he doesn’t know who they are, they’re safe.

If he finds out who they are, it’s going to be a whole different ballgame.

He had been making a number of inroads into that little problem. Careful bribes of officials, to start with, and an attempt to get into the confidence of the people who would know. He couldn’t do that himself – his stance on the issue was far too public – but some of the former HVF members had offered to give it a try. Scott had offered; hell, his mother is the official liaison. But Chris had gotten to know Melissa McCall during the Rising, and she’s not that stupid. She won’t tell her son anything.

But now he’s got a new problem. A problem named Stiles Stilinski.

The obvious solution is to make life in Beacon Hills so miserable for Stiles and his father that no other PDSS will dare come to town. But the problem with that, Chris thinks, is that they still _will_. They’ll just hide, under their fancy makeup and contact lenses. Hide in a crowd of anonymity, stay home most of the time. Is it a life to aspire to? No. But who knows what the Undead want?

So the secondary option is to actually welcome Stiles. To make it seem like Beacon Hills is okay with having PDSS in their midst. That would draw the others out. Into his crosshairs.

Chris likes the plan, but he’s not sure he can actually pull it off. He’s not much of an actor, and he’s been far too vocal about his opinions. He could convince the others to pretend to be welcoming, and then just take a back seat. But the ingrained revulsion and hatred of rotters is so strong, he has a feeling that Beacon Hills is going to be pretty damned unwelcoming no matter how much he quietly urges the opposite.

No, he decides, finishing his coffee while the news changes to a story about the stock market and its slow recovery in the aftermath of the Rising. He’ll let the town make the Stilinski kid wish he had never come home. And while they’re doing that, he’ll find the others, one by one.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles looks up as his father comes downstairs, dressed in his uniform, and swallows hard. He hates the idea of being left by himself all day, but what can he say? His father had taken a week off from work to stay with him while he came home. He can’t stay there forever.

In truth, he’s glad that his father is returning to work, for his own sake. They still haven’t talked much – have hardly talked at all – about the time that he was gone. But he’s picked up some little things. Like the fact that there’s absolutely no alcohol in the house. The shelf that used to hold his father’s liquor collection has now been filled with photographs. His father has told him a few stories about how Beacon Hills handled the Rising, and Stiles has noticed that the sheriff himself has hardly ever played a role in them. It’s always about the heroics of other people.

Lately, he can tell, his father has been getting back into the swing of things. Getting more involved in the politics of reintegration, in the general day-to-day affairs of their town. He mentioned at one point that he’s actually going to be up for re-election in the fall. He doesn’t seem particularly worried about it, but Stiles thinks that’s more because he doesn’t care if he wins or loses, rather than because he thinks he won’t run unchallenged.

Stiles does care, though. He knows that being in law enforcement, being the sheriff, is important to his father. He doesn’t want his father to lose something important because of him.

He doesn’t blame the people of Beacon Hills for being wary of reintegration. How could he? He remembers enough of what he did that _he_ wouldn’t want PDSS back in town, if he had been there. They have no guarantee that the neurotriptyline will keep them safe forever. He’s seen posts online about people wondering if they might build up a tolerance to it. And what happens if a shipment gets delayed? If he misses a shot? How quickly does it wear off?

Stiles is well aware that the more his father pushes the pro-reintegration policies, the less likely he is to keep his position, come November. And he doesn’t want his father to do that just for his sake. He’s perfectly happy hiding in the house, for a huge number of reasons. So that’s what he’s going to do. He hasn’t left it since they had gotten home, except for the support group, and a few times when the need for fresh air had gotten so great that he had let his father shoo him into the car. They had driven around on the back roads in the woods for a little while a few different nights, listening to the radio and not talking.

“Made you some coffee,” he says, offering the mug to his father as he comes into the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Tom says, rubbing a hand over Stiles’ rough buzzcut. He takes a few sips and says, “Now, I’ll have my phone on me all day if you need anything. But before I go, I need to – to show you something. Okay?”

“Sure,” Stiles says, a little baffled. He’s even more baffled when his father heads for the basement, but he follows. He hasn’t been down there since he got back. There just hasn’t been reason to. It’s unfinished, just storage, nothing exciting. It seems smaller than he remembers it, and he realizes the back wall is closer, that there’s a door there with a keypad beside it. “Dude. What’s in there?”

Tom walks over and gestures, punching in a six-digit code. The door slides open to reveal a small room. There’s not much in it, just a couple chairs, a few books, a lantern, and a cell phone and charger. “Panic room,” he says.

Stiles stares at the tiny little room and says, “Oh.”

“I had it put in about a month ago,” Tom says. “Just – just in case. If anything happens, if anyone tries to hurt you – just get here, okay? Don’t look back. Just get in here and then call me.”

After a moment, Stiles nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

“All right,” Tom says, heading up the stairs, leaving the door to the panic room open in case Stiles needs to get in. “Not that I, you know, expect any trouble,” he says, somewhat awkwardly. “I mean, don’t be anxious, okay? I just want to be sure you’re safe.”

“It’s fine, Dad,” Stiles says. “I’m happy to have it there, just in case.”

“Okay.” Tom gives him a hug, downs the rest of his coffee, and heads for the door. A few moments later, Stiles hears his car engine start. He’s left standing in the living room of the house, alone.

Now what?

It’s eight forty in the morning. His father won’t be home until after five. He has the entire day ahead of him.

He could keep watching television, of course. That’s what he’s spent most of the last week doing. Watching TV with his dad, and reading. A lot of stuff has come out in the last three years. Some awesome movies, cool books, great video games.

But it’s not just today. It’s the rest of – the rest of _forever_. What is he supposed to do?

In the facility, they had talked about learning new skills, taking up hobbies. Everybody there thought that was bullshit. He’s supposed to get through eternity by learning needlepoint? Carpentry? Even things he thinks he might be interested in learning how to do have lost any sense of luster. He could learn to cook, but he can’t eat. He could learn photography, but he can’t go anywhere.

Everything seems vast and purposeless and impossible to fill. If he can’t even get through eight hours, what’s he supposed to do with a year, with ten years, with literal _centuries_?

He realizes that his hands are shaking, that his breath is coming harsh and rapid and it feels like his heart is pounding in his chest. None of it makes any sense. How can a dead person even _have_ a panic attack? How can he still produce the necessary hormones? Is he even doing that, or is it all in his head?

Either way, he’s sure that if he doesn’t talk to somebody, he’s going to lose his mind. He takes out his phone with trembling hands, starts to dial his father, and then hesitates. His father has to go back to work. He literally left ten minutes ago. How can Stiles call him and admit that he couldn’t even get through a quarter hour?

But he has to talk to someone. He thinks about calling Melissa, but then sees Derek’s name in his directory, remembers the older teenager saying, “If you need anything, even if it’s only to talk, call me.”

He taps the name on the screen and hits ‘call’. It rings twice. By the time Derek picks up, Stiles is full-on hyperventilating. “Derek? Derek, it’s Stiles, I’m really sorry, but you said I could call for whatever and I’m _freaking_ out here, I – I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I mean, I _do_ , I’m dead and having a panic attack while doesn’t actually seem physically possible but I – ”

“Slow down, Stiles,” Derek says. His voice is calm and smooth. “Take a deep breath.”

“I can’t, I can’t, and why does it even _matter_? Why do we breathe, it doesn’t make any sense, I mean, we need oxygen for our brain cells, okay, but if our hearts are still beating and transporting the oxygen to our brains, then why is our skin all pasty and white? Did it literally rot? Because that’s pretty fucking gross, I don’t mind telling you that, and if our hearts _aren't_ beating then how – ”

“Stiles,” Derek says again, “stop talking. Okay? Just stop.”

Stiles’ words stutter to a halt.

“Good,” Derek says. “Now I just want you to listen to my voice. I want you to take a deep breath and listen to me. Don’t focus on anything besides my voice, and on breathing. Okay? In . . . hold it . . . and out. Slowly now. It’s going to be all right. In . . . hold it . . . and out. There you go. Is that helping?”

“Yeah,” Stiles rasps, sinking to the floor as his entire body shakes like a leaf. Derek keeps talking him through slow, deep breaths. The physical effects of the panic start to fade. “Sorry,” he finally says. “Wow. That was super embarrassing.”

He can practically hear Derek’s shrug. “What happened?”

“It’s my first day on my own and . . .” Stiles’ voice trails off. “I don’t know what to do with myself. What do you do all day when you’re a zombie?”

Derek, bless his heart, doesn’t argue with his use of the word. “I’d say I’m lucky to have Peter around most of the time, but, well. Peter.”

Stiles laughs despite himself, and feels his nerves ease up their chokehold a little. “But seriously. What do you do?”

“Art,” Derek says. “A lot of it.”

“See, I’m no good at art,” Stiles says. “I can’t even draw stick figures very well. And I could waste time watching TV or something, but that’s all it would be. A waste.”

“Let me guess, at the facility they told you that you should take up needlepoint.”

“Yes!” Stiles laughs again. “I could be the Martha Stewart of zombies. Take up homemaking. Or I could learn how to build birdhouses. But the thing is, I kind of suck at all of that stuff.”

“What are you good at?” Derek asks, like he’s genuinely interested.

“Uh. Surfing Wikipedia?”

“Okay,” Derek says. “Learn something.”

Stiles frowns. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, anything. Pick a topic that you’ve always been interested in and start reading about it. Even if it’s not anything you need to know. If you’re good at learning, go to it. Even if it doesn’t keep you busy forever, it can get you through the day, right?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” Stiles says. He heads into the room that’s now his bedroom and flips open his laptop. “Okay, let’s see. Wikipedia’s article of the day is the Voting Rights Act of 1965. That does sound pretty interesting.” He pulls up the article, then realizes he’s still talking to Derek, not just to himself. He starts to ask if Derek wants to hang up, but the idea terrifies him. “Will you – will you stay on the phone with me?”

“Sure,” Derek says. “I can put you on speaker while I work.”

“Okay.” Stiles starts reading out loud. He surfs links and winds up learning a hell of a lot about racism, politics, and law. He talks until his voice starts to go hoarse. It’s been nearly two hours. “I guess I should go before I wear out my voice box,” he says.

“All right,” Derek says. “Call me tomorrow,” he adds.

“I – really? You want me to?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to while I work.”

“Okay.” Stiles finds himself smiling. “Okay, I will. Talk to you then.”

He hangs up and then starts reading again, hopping from article to article, just reading random stuff. Around one, he gets bored but he’s feeling more mellow, maybe worn out by the panic attack. (How? Scientifically, he can’t make it add up.) He flops on the sofa with another movie. When that’s over, he goes into the kitchen. He can’t eat, but his father can. He pokes his head in the refrigerator, which is disappointingly bare. It occurs to him that all he’s really seen his father eat over the past week has been sandwiches, frozen pizza, and take-out.

Stiles chews on his lower lip for a little while. There’s no reason he _can’t_ go to the grocery store. Everyone in town knows he’s here. They shouldn’t be surprised to see him. But he thinks of the way his father had gripped his shoulder when showing him the panic room. No. Nobody’s ready for that. Including him.

So instead he digs around in the pantry. He can’t make dinner, but baking staples are available, and he knows how to make good gingerbread, his mother’s authentic Polish recipe. They have everything they need for that, old canisters of spices that are covered in dust, that probably haven’t been touched since he left. His mother loved to bake, and Stiles picked it up after she had died.

At five thirty, his father comes home, and when he gets a whiff of the baking, Stiles thinks he might burst into tears. “Wow,” he says. “You . . .”

“I, uh, I got kinda bored,” Stiles says. “I can’t eat it, but . . . you still like it, right?”

“Yeah.” Tom gets Stiles in a hug, and for a minute they just hang on to each other. He finally lets him go, wipes the back of his hand over his eyes, and reaches for a piece of the gingerbread. “So how was your day?”

“Uh, it was okay,” Stiles says. “I kind of had a panic attack but I – don’t look at me like that, I would have called you but it was your first day back, I didn’t want to – anyway, I called Derek. You know, from the support group? He gave me his number. And he helped me calm down.”

“That’s good,” Tom says. He goes into the refrigerator, pulls out a can of soda and then some things to make a sandwich with. “What were you upset about?”

“Just, uh, the specter of eternity with no purpose,” Stiles says brightly. “It was very existential. I cured it with Wikipedia.”

Tom can’t help but smile at this. “Well, I was thinking – I didn’t want to push you, but – you could go back to school.”

“Hah, no,” Stiles says. “I couldn’t even bring myself to go to the grocery store.”

“Well, what about online classes?” Tom glances over as he spreads mustard on a piece of bread. “We could work you through getting your GED, and then you could take college classes online. I’ve heard that’s a popular choice for PDSS who are getting reintegrated.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles says. It actually sounds nice. A schedule to keep, something that would have tangible results, like grades and papers. “Okay. I can do that. Also, uh, I was going to make dinner for you but there aren’t any groceries. Can you pick some things up for me?”

“Sure,” Tom says. “Do you want to come with me?”

Stiles ducks his head. “No, I . . . I’m okay. I was just trying to think of, of things that would help me occupy my time. Cooking is good, I mean, even if you’re the only one who will eat it. I want things that . . . that will have some sort of end result, you know? If I sit and watch TV all day, I just feel like . . . I’ve wasted time.”

Tom finishes arranging turkey and tomatoes on his sandwich. “What about gardening? Your mom used to love gardening, and it’s about the right time of year to be planting things.”

Stiles glances out the back window at the unkempt mess that is their backyard. Landscaping obviously hadn’t been his father’s priority over the past few years. The grass is all overgrown, and the neat areas of mulch or dirt that his mother had once kept flowers in are overrun by weeds. “Actually, that . . . that would be nice. I could spend some time outside without having to worry about people seeing me and freaking out.”

“All right,” Tom says. “I can pick you up some things for that, too.”

They talk for a while about that, about whether he wants flowers or vegetables, and they talk about what sort of classes he might want to take, and long-term career options for PDSS (currently, none exist). Stiles goes to bed that night feeling more optimistic than he has in years. He can do this. He can handle this. As long as nobody tries to make him leave the house, he’ll be okay.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really enjoying writing Lydia in this 'verse. 
> 
> I'm also making up some stuff about zombie biology/mechanics, because let's face it, there's no way that PDS *actually* makes sense scientifically, LOL

 

“Who is that you’ve been on the phone with all morning?” Peter asks, glancing up from his book as Derek comes into the main part of the house with a bucket full of paintbrushes that need to be washed.

“Stiles,” Derek says, his voice as brief and uncommunicative as usual.

“Ah ha,” Peter says, as if he’s just figured something out. He has this tone a lot of the time, and it never fails to really irritate Derek.

He’s not even sure why he’s taken to living with Peter. A lack of anywhere better to go, really. Peter’s always been adept at pulling strings that Derek never even knew _existed_. He was somehow even able to do it while institutionalized in PDS recovery. While most of the PDSS are stuck living in tiny apartments by themselves, or being a burden on their families, Peter had somehow bought this old farmhouse on the outskirts of Beacon Hills. That or he had just moved in, as the previous owners were dead. Derek didn’t know, and wasn’t sure he cared.

He could have gotten an apartment – the people at the institutions would procure a place for him, he was told, paid for by the federal funding for up to one year. It wasn’t as if he had a family he could go back to.

Cora was the only survivor of the Hale family now. Peter had killed Laura in his untreated state, so Cora was now the only truly living Hale. And she had found herself a place to live during the Rising, after Laura had been killed. She has no interest in reconnecting with her uncle, although she still spends a lot of time talking to Derek.

In truth, Derek understands. Cora and Laura had always been close. After the fire, all they had was each other, and Peter had killed her. Derek doesn’t blame Peter for that, but Cora does. When Peter had tried the whole, ‘what I did in my untreated state wasn’t my fault’ thing, Cora punched him in the face.

“You abandoned us,” she spit at him, tears streaming down her face. “After the fire, all you thought about was yourself. You got drunk and killed yourself with your stupid fancy car. You wouldn’t _be_ a fucking rotter if you hadn’t done that. So yeah, it was your fault that you killed Laura in your untreated state, because if you hadn’t been such a selfish piece of shit, you wouldn’t have been in an untreated state to begin with.”

There really wasn’t much of an argument Peter could make to that, so he just nodded acquiescence and stopped trying to talk to his niece. He and Derek lived – ‘lived’ – at the farmhouse, and he stopped offering to let Cora join them there. Derek stayed there with him because he didn’t want to impose on the new family that Cora was building for herself. But she came to see him every day, to bring him art supplies, look at his paintings, and tell him the news.

“What does that mean, ‘ah ha’,” he growls, when it becomes clear that Peter has no intention of explaining himself. He does that so often that it drives Derek insane. Makes little leading comments and then doesn’t explain them, waiting instead for Derek to break down and ask.

“Well, you did seem quite interested in him at the meeting,” Peter says, not looking up. “I’ve never seen you voluntarily give someone your phone number before.”

This is true, and Derek can hardly deny it. He can’t explain it, either. He just saw in Stiles the same pain and isolation and confusion that he feels every day. The kind that he can’t talk about with the support group because they just don’t seem to _get_ it. Peter and Jennifer are both completely blasé about the people they hurt when they were rabid. Isaac and Erica are less so, but they both have much stronger support systems than he does. Garrett Meyers, well, sometimes it doesn’t seem he came back all the way; he’s slow of both mind and speech.

Derek tried to talk to them about it after he had gotten back, but all he had gotten was a sympathetic pat on the shoulder from Jennifer and an ‘it’ll pass’ from Peter.

It won’t pass, and he doesn’t _want_ it to pass. He lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the people he hurt. For some reason that nobody’s sure of, his memories are much more clear than most PDSS'. Most of them have fragments, blurry pieces, but his, when he has them, are crystal clear. “It has something to do with how you responded to the neurotriptyline,” one of the doctors had told him.

He doesn’t mind, because he doesn’t want to forget these people who died at his hands, whether he was in control of his actions or not.

The fact that Stiles had called him and proceeded to voice all the same fears that Derek kept locked inside only cemented his impression that Stiles isn’t like the others. That Stiles is someone he can connect with, maybe, and God, he won’t admit it out loud but he’s so desperate for some kind of connection.

“Derek, earth to Derek,” Peter says. He sounds amused. “You’re that far gone already, are you?”

“No,” Derek growls. But he wonders if he is. While listening to Stiles talk about random stuff, he had felt more at peace with himself than he had since he had woken up in the institution, confused and alone and afraid. When he had finally stopped painting, he realized he had actually painted something with bright color in it, instead of the dark, hellish landscapes that had dominated his work lately.

He wants to see Stiles again. Wants to just show up at his house with a book he might like. Wants to see him without his makeup on, see the _real_ Stiles. He’s actually looking forward to the support group, which is ironic, because he’s hated it from day one.

“Mm hm,” Peter says, watching Derek as he dumps his things in the sink and starts cleaning his brushes. Peter never seems to get bored, even though Derek has no idea what he’s spending his time doing. Then again, Peter was always happiest when curled up with a book and ignoring the world, which he seems to think is beneath him.

“Shut up,” Derek tells him, and Peter just lifts his hands in surrender and gives a quiet little chuckle.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s well into Stiles’ second week back in Beacon Hills, and he has yet to see anyone other than his father and the other PDS sufferers at the support group, when there’s a knock on the door. He heads towards it cautiously, figuring that someone intent on killing him probably wouldn’t bother to knock, and peers through the peephole.

What he sees sends him reeling. It’s a girl, half a foot shorter than him, with strawberry blonde hair done in stylish waves. He knows her. He remembers her. Lydia Martin. He remembers her trying to crawl away from him, sobbing, grabbing at shelves and shopping carts for purchase. He remembers his teeth sinking into her leg as he tried to keep her from getting away.

That’s all he remembers. Shortly after that is when he got tasered, or so he’s been told. He’s also been told that his teeth sank so deep into her leg after the shock that it took four grown men to pry his spasming body loose. His jaws severed the tendons and tore through the muscles, and the wound got infected, and eventually they had amputated just below the knee.

When he doesn’t answer, but just stands there, she knocks again. He swallows hard, then edges the door open, leaving the chain on. “Yes?” he says, pretending he doesn’t know her.

“Stiles?” Her tone is brisk but not unpleasant. “I’m Lydia. Can I come in?”

“Why?” Stiles asks, a little suspiciously.

“So I can talk to you,” she says.

Stiles doesn’t really have a good reason not to, so he takes the chain off the door and steps back, letting her into the house. His gaze flickers down, because it can’t not, to the short skirt she’s wearing and the prosthetic leg. It’s high-tech, smooth and realistic, and she’s wearing cute pink heels. “Hi . . .?” he says. His gaze flicks back up, and that’s worse, because there are scars on the side of her face and her neck, where his teeth had sunk in before she had fallen and started crawling.

“Do you remember me?” she asks.

“Uh . . . yeah,” Stiles says, ducking his head. “Sorry.”

Lydia sighs. “Look. I came here because you’ve been back for two weeks now and you still haven’t left your house. Do you want to go out?”

“Go . . . out?” Stiles asks. “Out where? Out with you?”

“Yes,” Lydia says. “Not like ‘go out on a date’, but, maybe just out for a walk.”

“No,” Stiles says. “Not really. Why would you even ask me that?”

Lydia studies him for a minute, thoughtful. “I thought – look, I’m going to be honest with you, okay? You’re a mess. And I want to help you. This whole reintegration thing is a disaster. Everyone’s looking to you. And I know that’s a lot of pressure. You need help and nobody is helping you, so, here I am.”

Stiles gives her a sideways look. “You’re not . . . afraid of me?”

“No,” Lydia says. “I’m a scientist, okay? I know that the thing that attacked me in the supermarket that day wasn’t you. I’ve studied it backwards and forwards, and I have faith in the science. And I know you’ve read all the pamphlets and gotten all the lectures, and I could stand here and use big words like ‘hypothalamus’ and ‘amygdala’ but you know all those words already, you’ve heard all that stuff. So just . . . think of it like you were possessed. By an evil spirit.”

“It was very evil,” Stiles says, nodding.

“And now you’re better,” she says. “And what you did while possessed wasn’t your fault because it wasn’t _you_.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Still, I mean, you lost your fucking _leg_. People who never even met me as a rotter are vandalizing my house and calling here with death threats.”

“You know, it’s funny,” Lydia says, “but honestly, what happened to me that day really changed my life in a good way.” She sees the skeptical look on Stiles’ face. “I was beautiful, okay? I still am. I’m gorgeous. But before that . . . that was all I was. I was just another pretty face. Afterwards, I had . . . I had so many people saying ‘poor thing’ and ‘what will she do now’ because that was all I was to them. Nobody cared that I could have graduated high school when I was twelve. Nobody cared that I’ve published scientific research articles under fake names because I didn’t want anybody to know. They were all just sorry for me because oh, my pretty face. And I got angry, which basically led to me getting a bachelor’s degree in neurochemistry while I completed my rehab.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Lydia says. “I guess life is like that sometimes. There’s always good in the bad, and bad in the good. You want to go out?”

“No,” Stiles says. “Not really.”

Lydia’s eyes narrow at him. But she nods and says, “Okay. For today at least. You want to be my guinea pig?”

“I . . . what?” Stiles feels like he can’t keep up with this girl. It’s actually a nice feeling.

“Well, I’ve been working on something to improve the life of PDS sufferers,” Lydia says, “but until now I haven’t had anybody to test it on.”

“Like . . . neurotriptyline?” Stiles asks.

“No, that’s all government stuff. This is smaller, just – something that might help you feel more normal, might help with depression and the angst of being the undead and all.” Lydia tosses her hair. “You can’t eat, right? Or even drink. If you do, you just puke it back up and it’s disgusting. Well, as far as I can tell, the reason PDSS can’t eat is because you no longer produce the enzymes that help you digest food.”

“Right,” Stiles says.

“The thing is, there are diseases that behave the same way,” Lydia says. “Like cystic fibrosis or exocrine pancreas insufficiency.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, thinking that he knows what he’s going to be looking up on Wikipedia later.

“But there are medications that treat that,” Lydia says. “Enzyme replacement products. So, would you like to take a pill, drink a glass of milk, and see if you throw up? For science.”

Stiles considers this. He looks at her prosthetic leg. “Can’t be any stupider than trying to take on a mountain lion,” he says. “Give me your drugs.”

She produces an orange bottle from her purse. He takes the pill, waits ten minutes, and drinks a glass of milk from the refrigerator. Another ten minutes later, he’s puking his guts out into a bowl that Lydia has provided. “Oh, God, that was like, _projectile_ ,” he moans, picking up the bowl to take to the sink.

“Don’t rinse it, I need samples,” Lydia says, removing a kit from her purse.

“That is _disgusting_ ,” Stiles says, watching her swab out the bowl with some interest.

“That’s science,” Lydia says, giving him a severe stare.

Stiles gets a glass of water and rinses his mouth out, flinching. It occurs to him only in the moment when he catches his reflection in the bathroom sink that he hasn’t been wearing his makeup or his contacts the entire time. He walks back into the kitchen and says, “Sorry about the, uh . . .”

“Why aren’t you wearing it?” Lydia asks. “I don’t particularly care, but I’m curious.”

“It’s terrible,” Stiles says. “Here, I’ll show you.” He’s not sure why he offered that, why he somehow feels comfortable with this girl, who’s just so matter-of-fact about everything. He goes up to the room that’s now his and grabs the flesh-toned foundation. Then he comes back downstairs and grabs the framed picture of himself that his father has kept on the mantle. “Okay, here’s me, right?” he says, setting the picture down. Then he applies a streak of the flesh-tone to his cheek. “And here’s my foundation.”

“Holy. Crap.” Lydia states this flatly. “Okay. We _are_ going out. I need to take you to Sephora.”

“Hah, no!” Stiles protests. “I couldn’t step foot in a Sephora _before_ I was dead; I’m sure as hell not going there now.” He rubs a hand over his hair. “If we’re going to be honest, it doesn’t bother me that much. I mean, the whole point of the stuff is so we can pass as living, right? And I can’t. Ever. So why should I wear it at all?”

Lydia gives a little shrug. “Why do living girls wear makeup? To look pretty.”

“You don’t think I’m pretty?” Stiles asks, grinning at her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lydia says. “Dying really scrambled your brains, didn’t it.”

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Stiles says. “You figure out what drugs I need to take to digest one glass of milk, and then I’ll let you take me to Sephora.”

A pleased smile curves on Lydia’s face. “You’ve got yourself a deal, zombie-boy.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Tom looks at the stack of paperwork on his desk and sighs. He knows that things pile up if he takes even a few days off, especially since he only has two deputies now. Parrish is worth his weight in gold, but not everyone who works for him is. And it doesn’t help that at least half the staff is giving him a wide berth, like they’re afraid they might catch PDS from him despite all the debunking that’s been done about its contagion factor.

He can’t blame them. Hell, even Parrish was a little hesitant to eat the gingerbread that Stiles had made to send into the station. “It just seems – a little unsanitary,” he admitted, when Tom had given him a surprised look. “I mean, I know I can’t catch PDS from it, but eating something made by a deceased person is, uh.”

“He washed his hands first,” Tom says, and then shrugs and says, “more for me,” and starts eating it himself.

When he hadn’t keeled over, a few of the others had sampled it and admitted that it was good. Nobody had said anything about it.

Tom is well aware that his attitude about reintegration had earned him a lot of enemies. At the time it had come up, he hadn’t really been thinking about it in any sort of long-term way. The only thing on his mind was making sure that his son would be able to come home, that his son would be safe.

“The thing is,” Parrish had said on his second day back on the job, when they had been talking about the vandalism, “you don’t – you weren’t really _involved_ in the Rising the way a lot of these people are. I mean, can I be honest with you, Tom?”

“Shoot,” Tom said, but he knew what was coming.

“During the Rising, we were out there, all of us, fighting for our God damned lives. Fighting to protect our friends and families. You were sitting at home, at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Yeah, you picked up arms a few times, yeah, you killed a rotter or two. But it was never a, a _war_ for you, the way it was for the rest of us. So it’s a lot easier for you to sit back and say ‘they’re coming back and you’re expected to swallow it’.”

“So what do you think I should do?” Tom asked. “Risk my son’s safety?”

“No, I just think you’re coming on a little strong,” Parrish said. “Stiles seems to understand it better than you. You know, he’s the one who said ‘don’t press charges against Jackson’. Do you realize how much shit you would’ve taken if you had?”

“I’m not allowed to charge someone with a crime they clearly committed?” Tom asked, incensed.

“Not when it’s a God damned HVF veteran, no, you’re fucking not,” Parrish said, frustrated. “God damn it, Tom. You’re up for re-election in the fall, but they won’t even wait that long if you keep trying to cram this down everyone’s throat. They’ll recall you. I’ve heard people talking about it. I just feel like – there has to be a middle ground you can take with this. Acknowledge to people that you _know_ they’re uncomfortable. That you understand that they’re afraid. That you know they resent you because you weren’t here for the town when you should have been.”

Tom sighed. Parrish is better with people than he is, that’s a truth. “Okay, well, what do you suggest?”

“I suggest you sit down and do an interview. Assuage people’s fears. Reassure them that this isn’t becoming rotter central. If you _can_ have Stiles say a few words, do. Hell, he’s probably going to be better at it than you, but have him tell people that he understands how easy it is to blame him for what happened, even when the facts say they shouldn’t. That he wants to show them that he’s okay, that he’s willing to be open about the life he’s living now.”

“I don’t want him thinking he should blame himself,” Tom said.

Parrish gave a snort. “Well, you’d better buy up stock in denial, then, because from everything I’ve seen, he’s already there and way past it.”

Tom gave a grimace but didn’t argue. “How about we set up a question and answer type of thing with some local reporter, you can sit down with us and we’ll work on a press release. But I’m _still_ going to make it clear that PDSS are going to be _safe_ in Beacon Hills. The citizens don’t have to _like_ them being here, but they have to at least respect their right to live quietly.”

“Okay,” Parrish said. “I’ll make a few calls.”

Now he has an interview set up for the following day, and he isn’t looking forward to it in the slightest. But that’s tomorrow. First he has to finish the day’s work. He signs off on half a dozen reports, assigns two new cases, goes over some charges with the district attorney. When he’s finally finished, his head is aching, and he still has errands to run before he goes home.

Stiles has taken to sending him a grocery list once every three or four days, so there’s always fresh food in the house. Tom has no problem with that, but if Stiles won’t even go to the _grocery_ store, how is he ever supposed to go anywhere like school? He’s not sure if Stiles’ problem is fear or shame or something else entirely or a combination of a lot of things.

But he buys the groceries because these things take time, and above all else, he doesn’t want to push Stiles into anything he’s not ready for.

When he gets back to the house, there’s another car in the driveway. He feels his heart slam into his ribcage as he slams into the house, hand already on the butt of his gun, to confront nothing more sinister than a redhead painting – is she painting Stiles’ nails?

“Oh, hey, Dad,” Stiles says, blinking up at him. He’s not wearing his makeup or contacts or anything, and yet he’s sitting here with this clearly living girl, and what the hell happened in the last eight hours that Tom isn’t aware of? “Oh, uh, this is Lydia. Lydia Martin.”

The redhead gets to her feet and extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, Sheriff,” she says.

“Uh, yeah,” Tom says, and shakes it. “Wait. Lydia _Martin_? The same Lydia who – ”

She points down, and he automatically looks at the prosthetic leg. “The same,” she says.

“Okay,” Tom says, blinking slowly. “No, wait. I’m still confused.”

“Lydia came over to offer to be, like, my one-woman support group,” Stiles says. “She’s, um. Got a unique perspective on this whole thing.”

“It’s the _correct_ perspective,” Lydia says, “no matter how rare it is.” Back to Tom, she says, “It’s the perspective that now that Stiles’ limbic system is functioning properly, he’s no danger to me, and that somebody should be keeping him company, since he refuses to leave the house.”

Mouth slightly ajar, Tom looks at Stiles. His son gives a somewhat sheepish shrug. “I couldn’t convince her otherwise,” he says. “She’s like a pit bull.”

Tom kind of wants to hug this girl. Scratch that, he _really_ wants to hug this girl. “At least someone else in Beacon Hills shares that perspective with me,” he says. “Did you two do anything interesting?”

“Uh, science?” Stiles says.

Tom gives a snort and shakes his head. “Okay,” he says, “well, why don’t we make some dinner and you two can tell me all about it.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if Danny's parents or Jackson's mother were ever given first names or professions on the series, so..... hopefully I haven't screwed anything up, LOL
> 
> Also, seeing as I still haven't watched past 3A, I have no idea if I'm writing Kira accurately at all. I tried to make her as cute as possible. ^_^

 

“How would you characterize your stance on reintegration?”

Tom stares across the table at the two reporters. Two, Parrish had said, because they’re trying to be fair. One is Alex Mahaelani, a long-time reporter with the Beacon Hills Tribune. The other is Susan Whittemore, mother of the newly-almost-arrested Jackson Whittemore, who clearly wants to make him look bad in her online column.

Still, he takes the time to answer evenly. “I think that it’s a tricky issue, and it needs to be done slowly. I think that the partially deceased syndrome sufferers who have put in their time and have their disease under control deserve a chance to return to some semblance of normalcy. That’s what I want to give them.”

“What sort of controls do you have in place?” Alex asks.

“Well, the federal government mandates that all PDS sufferers have weekly checks with their doctor for the first six months after their release. The official liaison will make sure that they’re getting their shots appropriately.”

“What if one of them isn’t?” Susan asks.

“They would be returned to the institution, and at that point it’s out of my hands.”

“Well, what if they don’t get there?” Susan presses. “What if they go rabid and escape their handlers?”

Tom wants to protest the word ‘handlers’, but sees Parrish shake his head slightly. “Then it would depend on why it had happened. If their medication had been somehow tampered with, or if they got a bad batch, or anything of that sort, they would have to be subdued. If they had stopped taking it voluntarily, then, to answer the question you’re really asking, yes, I believe lethal force would be appropriate.”

Alex makes a few notes. Susan is scowling at him, like she got an answer she doesn’t like.

“Are you familiar with the Castle doctrine?” she asks.

“Yes, I am,” Tom says, somewhat warily.

“So you’re aware that by California law, a person can use deadly force if they fear their life is in danger,” she says.

“If they have a _reasonable_ fear that their life is in danger,” Tom says, gently emphasizing the word.

“Well, after all we’ve dealt with, I think that would be fairly reasonable, wouldn’t it? I could very much fear for my life if I met a PDSS out on the street.”

Parrish clears his throat and says quietly, “The castle doctrine only applies if you’re inside your residence, ma’m.”

“Actually, that has never been firmly established by the California Supreme Court,” Susan continues. “It’s felt very strongly in some circles that civilians, particularly when they’ve had military or HVF training, should be allowed to defend themselves or others in public. That’s just a basic self-defense ruling.”

Tom opens his mouth to explain the difference between the castle doctrine and a basic self-defense verdict, and changes his mind. He doesn’t have all day. “I suppose it would be up to the courts to decide, then,” he says. “All I can say is that if you feel your life is greatly endangered by encountering a PDSS in public, then you should call the police and leave that location, because by federal law, they have as much right to be there as you.”

“Uh huh.” Susan takes some notes. “Are you aware that the state of Florida has expanded their Stand Your Ground law to include the right to defend oneself from ro – from PDSS in public places?”

“What the state of Florida does isn’t something that concerns me,” Tom says. “My job is to enforce federal law and the laws passed by the state of California.”

“Mm hm.” Susan purses her lips and changes tactics. “How do you feel about the right to refuse service?”

“Well, I think the courts already settled that issue some time ago,” Tom says, “in that it’s not okay to refuse service to someone based on something that they can’t help, such as their race, sexual orientation, or, yes, their PDS status.” He sees Susan’s eyes light up like he just threw her a bone, and continues, “However, I’m aware that there are still very strong feelings in this community about the Rising. I know that a lot of people lost loved ones, and I certainly wouldn’t want to serve someone who had hurt my family, whether they had done it on purpose or not. So I would ask PDSS who are reintegrating to be respectful of the fact that it will take time for them to be welcome in certain places or situations.”

Tom sees Parrish breathe a slight sigh of relief. Alex sees that Susan is pouting, and says, “If you could give some advice to returning PDSS, what would it be?”

“To be patient,” Tom says. “To understand that a return to ‘normal’ is not going to be possible. We can’t get back there. We’re all going to have to try to figure this out together, which means that compromise is going to be necessary for everybody.”

“Even you?” Susan asks, with a toss of her hair.

“Especially me,” Tom says. “I know I’ve come off as somewhat heavy-handed in the past, and I want to apologize for that. I was concerned about my son’s welfare, and it made me insensitive to other people’s feelings. I truly love my son, and I truly believe that Beacon Hills is just as safe after his arrival as it was before. All I ask is that everyone give him a chance to prove that to you.”

Susan is still scowling, and Parrish jumps in. “I understand Stiles prepared a statement.”

“Yeah.” Tom takes out the sheet of paper Stiles had written on. He hadn’t been able to convince Stiles to come down to the station with him and face reporters. Frankly, he hadn’t blamed him, especially with Susan Whittemore invited. “I’ll let you take a photocopy before you go, but it isn’t long. ‘To the people of Beacon Hills: thank you for allowing me the chance to reintegrate. I don’t remember much of what happened during the Rising, but I know that it must have been horrible for all of you. I’m sorry that you all had to go through that, and I hope that with time, I can reassure you that I’m no longer a danger to you.’ That’s it.”

Alex is nodding, like he approves. Susan just scowls a little deeper, and Tom is sure that not a single word of Stiles’ statement will appear in whatever column she writes.

There are a couple more questions about logistics and technicalities, but the worst part is over. Tom shakes both their hands, thanks them for coming, and Parrish shows them out. He looks relieved when he comes back in. “That went pretty well,” he says.

“Yeah,” Tom says. “Thanks for your advice. I was a dick about it.”

Parrish just smiles. “It’s okay. How’s Stiles?”

“Actually he was pretty chipper this morning,” Tom says. “The girl he hurt just before he was captured, Lydia, she came over just to tell him that she didn’t hold him responsible for his actions. They’ve made friends. It really seemed to help him a lot. Plus we’re getting him enrolled in online classes, which is a big help to him.”

“That’s great,” Parrish says, his tone sincere. “Still hasn’t gone out anywhere though, huh?”

“No. But since nobody wants me to rush him into anything, I’m trying not to worry about it. He just – he needs time. That’s all.”

Parrish nods. “Well, tell him I said hi,” he says, and waves over his shoulder as he heads back to his desk.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

If it weren’t for Derek, Stiles probably wouldn’t even go to the support group the third week. He knows that his father thinks he should get out of the house more, but every time he’s tried to leave lately, he’s wound up having panic attacks. He’s not keen to have one in front of a bunch of people. But he wants to see Derek.

It’s strange, because at the facility, all he had wanted was to be left alone. But now that he’s back in Beacon Hills, the isolation feels different. He’s home now; he’s not _supposed_ to be alone. He can’t see Scott – and God how he wants to see Scott – but he has his dad, and Lydia comes over every other day, and Melissa and Parrish both drop by a few times a week.

Melissa often updates him on how Scott’s doing, dropping little hints like, ‘he’s thinking about going back to school’ and ‘it drives me crazy when Chris gives him night patrol’. Stiles slowly pieces together what’s been going on with Scott while he was gone. Melissa pulls up a picture on her phone at one point and Stiles barely _recognizes_ his friend. Three inches taller, hair cut short and in loose spikes, muscled, wearing a black tank top and fatigue pants, _tattooed_. “Holy shit,” Stiles blurts out, when he sees the photo, and Melissa laughs.

He’s not sure if that makes him more or less eager to see Scott. He wants his brother back, but Scott’s changed so much. So has he, but it’s all on the inside.

“Why don’t you ask the support group about it?” Tom says, as they’re driving to the hospital.

“Because they’ll say something that pisses me off,” Stiles mutters. “Something like, ‘you won’t know until you try’ or ‘we’re all counting on you’.” Jennifer had said that to him at the second support group meeting, and he had wound up in the bathroom with his head between his knees.

Tom grimaces but admits that Stiles has a point. The next person who had vandalized their house had been smart enough to toss a trash bag over the mailbox, obscuring the camera, before painting ‘we’re coming for you’ on the driveway and smashing a bunch of windows. That had happened while Stiles had been in the house by himself, and he had wound up hunched up in the panic room, discovering a severe sense of claustrophobia. Tom had rushed home, but he hadn’t been close by. By the time he got back to the house, the perpetrator was long gone and Stiles was curled in fetal position on the basement floor, trembling violently. The combination of fear and the tiny closet of a panic room had helpfully reconnected another memory for him: that of waking up underground and clawing his way out of his grave.

“Look, we don’t have to go today, if you don’t want to,” Tom finally says, as he parks.

“I do,” Stiles says. “I mean, I want to see Derek. He’s my friend, and he doesn’t have any company besides his jerk uncle.”

“Okay,” Tom says.

“Maybe he could – come over for a little while afterwards?” Stiles says, hesitantly. Then he remembers that they have people at their house replacing half their windows, and their driveway is still a mess of red paint. “Or maybe I could go over to his place. That might be okay. A new place.”

Tom looks a little surprised, but then says, “Sure. If you want.”

So Stiles slogs through the support group, listens to Peter giving out financial advice for people who are now going to be around for a long time, Erica complaining about how her mother won’t let her out of her sight, Garrett mumbling about how he just doesn’t feel safe, he’s sure he’s being watched.

It’s not that he hates these people or anything. He’s sure that their concerns are valid, and they’ve got every right to voice them and seek support. Okay, he does hate Peter, a little, for just generally being a know-it-all, and Jennifer makes him strangely uneasy, but the others are okay. Erica’s actually pretty funny. Isaac usually speaks only once or twice per hour, but whatever he says has enough sass to fill up the rest of the time that he’s silent.

Stiles had asked his father, out of curiosity, about the possibility of interviewing a murdered PDSS and then bringing charges against their murderer. His father had sighed and said, “Legally, PDSS are not considered reliable witnesses. Because of the memory problems.”

“That sucks,” Stiles said. He wonders if Isaac remembers at all. God knows that he remembers his death in crystal clear detail, but he knows that it’s different for everybody. He also wonders why Isaac is living with his brother, instead of his father, if it has something to do with it.

That reminds him of something he’s been meaning to ask. When the meeting is breaking up, he pulls Isaac aside and says, “So, your brother . . . he was in the HVF, right?”

“Yeah,” Isaac says, giving him a questioning glance. “He managed to get himself discharged from the military so he could come back from Beacon Hills. Why?”

“Well, he . . . he’s okay with you? I mean, most of the HVF people seem to really, really hate us.”

Isaac shrugs and looks uncomfortable. “He said it was like people who committed crimes while they’re crazy. One guy even killed someone while he was sleepwalking once. Didn’t have any idea he was doing it. Since we’re on the meds now, he says . . . it’s all good. You know?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “It does make sense. But then why does the rest of the HVF hate us so much?”

“Defense mechanisms,” Isaac says. “That’s what Cam says, anyway. Because they killed a ton of rotters, you know? If they stop to think about how those people could have been saved, it’ll really fuck them up. So they just choose not to believe it. That’s why they all think we’ll go bad again. And the louder they are about it, the more they keep everyone else convinced of the same thing.”

Stiles thinks this over. “Shit,” he finally says.

“Yep,” Isaac agrees. “Cam says it probably doesn’t bother him as much for two reasons. One, he was military, you know? He’d been trained in how to kill people, had counseling on it, probably killed plenty of people when he was in Iraq. And secondly, he didn’t _know_ these people. He hadn’t been in Beacon Hills since he was eighteen. He didn’t have to kill his neighbors or his coworkers. Lucky for him that I’d wandered towards the coast. He never saw me.”

Stiles nods again. “I just . . . I have this friend . . .”

“Scott, right?” Isaac says, and Stiles nods. “Yeah, we all know the story of you and Scott. The bromance of the century. You dying to save his life, that’s heavy shit. And then you became a zombie and he joined the HVF? It’s like a reverse Romeo and Juliet.”

“I don’t know what I would call it,” Stiles says, “but probably not that. Everyone just says to give him time . . .”

“Fuck, no,” Isaac says. “He’s not gonna change his mind unless you make him. Show up on his doorstep. Stand outside with a boombox.”

Stiles laughs despite himself. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he says. Then Erica’s mom is there, and she’s Isaac’s ride, so he waves as he leaves. He walks over to Derek, who’s glumly staring out the window. “Hey, uh . . . you want to hang out?”

Derek blinks at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. “Hang out?”

“Yeah. It’s this thing that friends do?” Stiles says.

“Where?” Derek asks, frowning.

“Well, I was going to invite you over to my place and say we could play video games or something but someone broke a bunch of our downstairs windows so it’s kind of noisy there right now,” Stiles says. He leaves it at that, because his mother taught him manners, and he isn’t going to invite himself over. Hopefully, Derek will get the hint.

He doesn’t. Instead he just frowns deeper and says, “Well, it’s not like we can go out anywhere.”

“For Heaven’s sake,” Peter says, walking over. “I apologize for my nephew. He was socially stunted long before he was dead. Why don’t you come over to our place, Stiles?”

Stiles decides that he doesn’t hate Peter after all. “Sure,” he says. “That sounds like fun.”

As it turns out, Peter has a car. It’s a very nice car, not the kind of traditional American sports car like a Corvette or a Mustang, but some ridiculously high class Mercedes. Stiles can’t help but wonder about that, and then he sees the farmhouse they live in and he’s even more curious. Peter talks about the car and the house on the ride, but he never mentions how he came by them.

Derek just broods in silence, and Stiles is worried that he’s made him angry, but he’s not sure how to approach it. Peter surprises him by going into the kitchen and starting a coffee maker. “I know we can’t drink it,” he says, “but I do love the smell.”

“That makes sense,” Stiles says, and then starts telling them about Lydia and exocrine pancreas insufficiency. She had come over the day before their house had been vandalized, and said for now they were going to focus on simple carbohydrates, as those were the easiest to digest. He’d taken a pill, drank four ounces of apple juice, and then puked it all back up. Even so, her enthusiasm is contagious, and he’s enjoying their work together.

Peter’s quite interested to hear this, and then he says he’s heard about the vandalism – where does he get his information, Stiles wonders – and they talk about that for a little while. Stiles doesn’t mention the death threats. He hasn’t said anything about them to anyone.

When Derek has been scowling for about forty minutes of conversation, Peter stands and says, “Why don’t you show him your studio, Derek?”

“Oh. Sure,” Derek says, heading for the back of the house without waiting to see if Stiles is following.

Stiles trots along after him, up a set of stairs and into a room where one wall is entirely windows, and the rest of it is strewn with art supplies. He’s about to ask Derek why he’s so angry, but then catches sight of the paintings and just says, “Oh . . . oh wow. These are amazing.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, somewhat abruptly, as Stiles admires the line of surreal landscapes.

Stiles frowns and turns to look at him. “Are you mad at me?”

“What?” Derek says, scowling. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Uh, because . . . you’re glaring at me and not talking to me, which is generally a pretty good indicator of anger,” Stiles says. “Look, I’m sorry that I kind of invited myself over, okay? I just wanted some different scenery for a little while, especially since my house is a mess.”

“No, I know that, I just . . .” Derek’s scowl deepens. “You look . . . different, today.”

“What, ‘cause I’m not wearing the makeup?” Stiles asks, confused.

“Not that.” Derek waves a hand impatiently. “It’s just, you seem to be . . . happier.”

“And that . . . makes you angry,” Stiles says.

“No! Well, yeah,” Derek admits. “Because I thought we – I thought you and I were kind of alike, and now here you are making friends with a girl you nearly killed, and inviting yourself over to my house, and talking with Isaac about how to make up with your friend, and I just – ”

“Okay, wow,” Stiles says, blinking. “Uh. I guess I hadn’t realized that I’d actually made any progress. Probably because of the forty-five minutes I spent sobbing hysterically on my basement floor yesterday. Or maybe because when Parrish came over to talk to my dad, I decided to hide in my room rather than face him. Or possibly because the reason I wanted to come here so badly is precisely _because_ I thought you would understand how hard this is. You clearly think it’s been pretty easy for me, so I’ll just, uh, I’ll just show myself out.”

Derek swears and grabs his wrist. “Stiles, wait,” he says, and Stiles glowers at him. “I didn’t mean it like that. Maybe I’m just – jealous. That you’ve actually reconnected with some people, and I . . . I don’t have anyone else to reconnect with.”

Stiles feels a twist in his gut. “That . . . that’s awful,” he says. “I mean, not that you’re jealous. That seems totally reasonable. I’d be jealous of me. I mean, I have the best dad in the world, I couldn’t . . . I don’t know what I would do without him. I don’t think I’d even be able to get out of bed in the morning if it weren’t for him, let alone take classes or go to support groups.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, and sighs. “I’m sorry I was a jerk. Let’s just – I’ll show you around, okay?”

“Sure.” Stiles is happy to drop it. “How’d you _get_ this place?”

“I have no idea,” Derek says. “I mean, we have plenty of money. We were rich even before the fire, and all the insurance money that came with that. Family money. I mean, Mom was an artist, and pretty well-known, and my dad was a lawyer and he pulled in a lot. Laura got all of it, and I guess in her will it all went to Cora. But Cora was a minor, only seventeen when Laura died, so it all went into a trust. I don’t know how the hell Peter got _access_ to the trust, but that’s the sort of thing he does, so . . .”

“He’s spending your little sister’s money?” Stiles says, thinking that he might start hating Peter again.

“Yeah, but . . . look, I mean it when I say rich, okay? Getting a house and a car is like a drop in the bucket. Cora honestly didn’t care. She hates Peter for a lot of different reasons, but that isn’t one of them. He said he only got the house because he knew I would need room for a studio. Of course, he’s a lying piece of shit, but I get sick of arguing with him.”

“The car was clearly for your benefit, too,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah. God damned class E Mercedes. Peter needs a swift kick in the ass.”

“Doesn’t he worry that will people will notice him?”

Derek gives a shrug. “It’s not like he drives it around town. Just to the hospital for the support group once a week. It’s got tinted windows, so you can’t really see us in it.”

“Fair enough,” Stiles says. “So what did Peter do?”

“Technically,” Derek says, with a little grimace, “he worked at the same law offices as my dad. But he wasn’t a lawyer. He was, God, what bullshit title did they give him? Research consultant, or something like that.”

“He was a fixer,” Stiles says. “I saw a movie about that once.”

Derek snorts. “Yeah. I mean, he worked some as a private investigator, to help my dad dig up information or evidence on cases he was working on. But he also did a lot of stuff under the table that was legally gray at _best_. Bribes, extortion, blackmail.” He shrugs again. “That’s why it doesn’t surprise me at all that even dead, Peter can still get a house and a car without batting an eyelash. That’s the sort of thing he does.”

Stiles thinks this over, compares it to what he knows about the law based on his father’s experiences. “Is he a good person?” he asks.

“No,” Derek says promptly, and gives Stiles a sideways smile. “But I don’t think he’s a bad one, either. Peter’s just . . . Peter.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, kicking his legs back and forth. “So if your dad made a lot of money, he can’t have been a prosecutor. Defense attorney?” he asks, and Derek gives a somewhat amused nod. “Criminal or civil?”

“Criminal,” Derek says.

“So your dad made a living arguing with Mike Whittemore,” Stiles says. “Actually that sounds like a job I would enjoy.”

“Yeah. Actually . . .” Derek frowns a little and then says, “I just remembered something.”

Stiles knows all about recovering memories, and he goes a little tense. “What?”

“Just that my dad was working on a big case right before the fire.” Derek shakes his head. “I wonder what happened to it after he . . . after _we_ died.”

“I could ask my dad, if you wanted,” Stiles offers.

“I guess it doesn’t matter.” Derek shakes his head. “I mean, that was years ago. Anyway, this is getting too morbid. C’mon, I’ll show you around.”

Derek leads him around the house and then the grounds, and the farmhouse is isolated enough that Stiles is able to actually enjoy being outside for a little while. They mess around with a Frisbee. He’s terrible at it and every shot goes nowhere near Derek. For the first time in forever, he finds himself smiling.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So then my dad says to Gina ‘sorry, but music puns aren’t my _forte_ ,’” Kira says, laughing as she uses her chopsticks to grab a California roll. “I thought she was going to slap him, it was so funny.”

Scott shakes his head a little, but he’s laughing as he goes for a piece of pickled ginger. “Your dad amazes me sometimes,” he says.

“Me too,” Kira agrees. The loss of her mother had been hard on everyone, but she knows it’s her father who got her through the worst of it, her father who kept telling her that they would honor her mother best by living. She nudges Scott’s arm with her foot. She’s sitting sideways in the passenger seat of his car with her feet in his lap. “Hey. You gonna help me study for my psych final next week, or what?”

“Yeah, sure,” Scott says. “You want me to be the patient? I could tell you about my dreams.”

“I don’t want to hear about your dreams, you dirty boy,” Kira says, and they both laugh again. “I’m serious! And then you should sit down with me and help me pick my classes for next semester.” She picks up another piece of sushi. “Dad thinks I should transfer to a better school.”

Scott doesn’t look up, keeping his attention trained on his dinner. “Like in San Francisco or somewhere?”

“Yeah. I mean, BH Community is a pretty good school, but if I actually want to be a counselor, they don’t offer enough of the right classes. I mean, they basically have psych 101 and psych 201.” Kira shrugs and breaks open a package of soy sauce, tipping it into her tray. “Dad keeps leaving fliers for other schools on my desk. Class descriptions and stuff. San Francisco State is offering classes specifically in counseling of PTSD and PDS situations now.”

“Uh huh.” Scott still doesn’t look at her. “What are you thinking?”

Kira’s quiet for a minute. “I can’t stay here forever, can I? Not if I’m serious about this.”

“Guess not,” Scott says.

“They do offer some of the courses I need online,” Kira says, “so I could stay here another year, do gen ed classes at the community college and take some psych courses online. And San Francisco is only about three hours away. I could come home some weekends.”

“Uh huh,” Scott says.

Kira leans forward, reaching over to get her hand under Scott’s chin, turning him so he has to look at her. “You could come with me, you know,” she says. “You could take a year to get your GED. They have special accommodations for people who were in the HVF, who didn’t actually finish high school. Or if you didn’t want to go back to school, you could get a job in the city.”

“I don’t know, Kira,” Scott says. “Beacon Hills is my home.”

“Well, think about it,” Kira says. “Okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

“Okay,” Scott says. He puts the remains of his dinner up on the dashboard. “Hey, c’mere,” he says, pulling her into his lap and kissing her.

“Mmm, wasabi,” she jokes, and kisses him back. He laughs, sliding his hands underneath the back of her shirt. She pulls away a little. “I want to be with you, Scott. Like, really. I’m not going to push you. I need you to know that. I’m not like, I don’t think you’re ‘leading me on’ or using me or anything like that. But I think with some time, we could be something amazing together.”

“Okay,” Scott says quietly, and twines a hand through her hair, kissing her again.

They’re about halfway undressed when Scott’s radio crackles. “Hey, Scott, you there, over,” a voice asks. It’s Boyd, and his voice is strained, excited and afraid at the same time.

Kira pulls away. “Are you on call tonight?” she asks.

Scott shakes his head. “No, but if they found a rabid, they’ll call me anyway,” he says, and grabs the radio, “Hey, I’m here, over.”

“Dude, we found one,” Boyd says. “Living in town. Chris is heading over there right now. Longmore Street. Over.”

Scott feels Kira go tense in his arms. Their eyes lock, and he sees the fear in them, knows it’s echoed in his own. It’s one thing to _talk_ about what they would do if they found a PDSS living in town, other than Stiles. It’s quite another to actually do it. “What’s he going to do?” Scott asks. “Uh, over.”

There’s a long silence, and then Boyd says, “What do you _think_ he’s going to do? Over and out.”

Kira and Scott stare at each other for a long time. Then Scott starts to move Kira out of his lap. He buttons up his pants and she adjusts her blouse. He turns the car on. “Where are we going?” Kira asks.

“Longmore street,” Scott says, his voice tight, tense. “My old bus driver lives there. Garrett Meyers. He died of a heart attack about a month before the Rising. I was there when he was captured – so were you, actually. That’s gotta be who Chris is heading for.”

“What are we going to do when we get there?” Kira asks.

Scott shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I still feel like we should be there.”

Kira nods. “Okay,” she says, and squeezes his wrist. “Let’s go.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is half-asleep as he stares out the window of the car, lulled by the motion. He sleeps better in the car than he does in his own bed, so a lot of the time he gets his father to take him out on a drive late at night. The cool air once the sun has set makes him feel at least a little alive again. They’re heading back home when Tom’s radio crackles. “Sheriff, we’ve got a 245 in progress at the Meyers house,” the dispatcher’s voice says, and Tom swears. Then they’re getting the address, and he’s taking a corner nearly on two wheels. Stiles knows the code, because of course he does. 245 is assault with a deadly weapon. He’s trying to remember if there’s a code specifically for a home invasion, because he feels very sure that that’s what’s happening.

He’s right. Three minutes later, they pull up outside the Meyers house in time to see Chris Argent in his HVF fatigues, shoving Garrett Meyers to the street. Tom pulls the car over and says to Stiles, “Stay in the car, do you understand me? No matter what happens, you _stay in this car._ ”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles whispers, and his father gets out, slamming the door behind him.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles does a quick scan of the people standing around. Carol Meyers, Garrett’s daughter, is being held by a large man he doesn’t know. She’s sobbing and begging them not to hurt her father, as Chris Argent presses the muzzle of his gun into the back of Garrett’s head. Stiles hears her cry out, “Daddy!” and his stomach churns.

Sheriff Stilinski takes two steps and then fires a blank into the sky. The noise startles everyone, even Chris; although he doesn’t flinch, his head jerks around. “What the _hell_ is going on here?” Tom demands, and Stiles sees the look on Chris’ face and really wishes that his father had waited for backup.

“Well, Sheriff,” Chris says, “I think it’s actually fairly evident. I’m doing my civic duty and ridding this town of a rotter. Just like I’m supposed to.”

“No,” Carol protests. “No, he’s not rabid, he wouldn’t – he hasn’t hurt anyone – ”

“I beg to differ, miss,” Chris says. “I personally witnessed this man smashing the skull of a twelve-year-old girl and eating her brains, just before someone else hit him with a taser.”

Garrett looks between Chris and Carol as if confused. “I don’t – I don’t remember that,” he mumbles.

“Chris,” Tom says, his voice cold and hard, “you know as well as I do that Mr. Meyers wasn’t in control of his actions when that happened.”

“I don’t know that, actually,” Chris says. “You may buy into this bullshit propaganda, but I don’t. A lot of people here don’t. Right, Vernon?” he asks, and the man holding Carol by the arm nods angrily. “Right, Scott?”

Stiles jerks in his seat. He hadn’t thought to look for Scott; it had never occurred to him that his friend might be there. And he’s so different now. Stiles thinks he honestly might have walked by him on the street without recognizing him. But now that he’s looking – he sees Scott standing a few feet away, nearly in the Meyers’ yard. He sees the look on Scott’s face, the mixture of confusion and revulsion and cold fear. He looks like he might be sick, and Stiles has a feeling that it’s not from being so close to a rotter.

“Now you listen to me,” Tom says, his gun fixed on Chris. “I don’t care what your personal opinions on this matter are. By federal law, the law that I am forsworn to carry out, if you shoot that man, it is murder. Which means that I’m only going to give you _one chance_ to lower your weapon, before I fire on you. Do you understand that, Chris? Put the gun down. Before I put you down.”

Chris stares at him hard for a minute, then lets go of the gun with one hand, lifting it in surrender as he lowers the weapon to the ground.

“Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head,” Tom says. “Vernon, let go of that woman right now, and do the same.”

For a minute it looks like they might not comply, like they’re weighing their chances in a physical altercation. Then there are more sirens, more lights. Backup is arriving. So they do as they’re told.

Carol rushes forward, to her father, but trips over the curb and falls heavily to the ground. Everyone just stares at her for a few moments, while Tom gets Chris handcuffed. Stiles doesn’t stop and think, doesn’t remember his promise. She’s crying for her father, and he won’t, he _can’t_ , just sit there and listen to that. He’s out of the car a few moments later and kneeling beside her, helping her up. Her ankle is wrenched, and he supports her heavily as she limps over to her father. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he says to her, then adds to Garrett himself, “You’re okay.”

“Everybody’s so angry,” Garrett mumbles, still clearly confused.

“Stiles, I told you to – ” Tom says, but then sees the futility of the statement. “Get them inside and stay there. I mean it.”

Stiles hesitates for a few moments, but then a car door slams and Parrish comes jogging up with another deputy behind him. “Yeah, okay,” Stiles says. Carol is getting her father to his feet. Stiles just stands there for a few minutes while his father is saying that Chris and Vernon Boyd are under arrest, but he’s going to let the rest off with a warning this time. His gaze tracks automatically over to Scott, who’s still standing there, frozen. Their gazes lock for a moment, and they just stare at each other. Stiles tries to think of something to say, but there’s nothing. Then Garrett’s on his feet and a cute Asian girl is taking Scott by the wrist, and the moment is over.

He gets Garrett and Carol inside and they sit down on the sofa together. Carol is trembling but trying to hold herself together. Stiles paces around until his father pokes his head in.

“Look, I’m going to be down at the station for a while,” he says. “Melissa’s going to come take you home, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says, with a nod. Two minutes later, Melissa arrives. He says good night to Garrett and Carol. Melissa says that she’s going to take Stiles home and then come straight back, so she can talk to them about what happened.

When Stiles gets outside, Scott is still standing there, looking miserable and uncertain. “Oh,” he says, when he sees Stiles come out behind his mother.

Melissa forces a smile. “Sheriff Stilinski asked me if I could take Stiles home.”

“Okay,” Scott says. He scuffs the sidewalk with one foot and then says, “Uh, actually, I came on my bike, so. I’ll just meet you there.”

“Sure,” Melissa says, and her smile fades back into a frown as she watches him go.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Stiles says.

“Hard on him.” Melissa’s voice is tight and angry. “He nearly helped murder an innocent man.”

“Yeah, but – ” Stiles takes a minute to think how to phrase things. He feels like he’s walking a very fine line right now, and he _has_ to make Melissa understand, or he’ll lose his friend forever. “I saw him. Right then. He was scared. He didn’t want to let Chris do it, but he didn’t know how to stop him. He – if we let him – let him process this, he might – but if we push him, if we shout at him – he’ll just – ”

He’s flailing and he knows it, but he seems to have gotten his point across, because Melissa’s face softens. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll talk to him about how I know he didn’t want to be there. And how I want to help him. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, feeling relief wash through him. “Okay.”

They reach the house a few minutes later. She makes sure Stiles gets inside okay. He decides to go down to the panic room and sit there until his father’s home.

In the dark of the basement, he almost doesn’t see it. Then he realizes that someone has written ‘you’re next’ on the door to the panic room that’s supposed to keep him safe.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Melissa spends about an hour at the Meyers’ house. Carol is frantically throwing things into bags and suitcases, prompting Garrett to help her pack. Melissa knows she won’t convince them to stay, and she can’t blame them. There may be anti-PDS sentiment everywhere, but there’s only Chris Argent here. So she gently talks to them about where they might go and how to hook up with the PDS liaison there, and then she goes back to the house.

Scott is sitting slumped at the kitchen table, an untouched can of soda beside him. Melissa sits down next to him, taking in the set of his shoulders and the lines on his face, and decides that Stiles was right. No matter how angry she is about what happened, what Scott needs is a hug. So she gives him one.

“I’m really sorry, Mom,” Scott mumbles. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Melissa hugs him for a long minute, then pulls away. “What happened?”

“I was with Kira. We were just – you know – parking.” He flushes a little pink, but soldiers on. His mother is quite aware of his sex life, much to his dismay. “I got a call on my radio. That they had found – a rotter. I thought – I should – ”

Scott has to stop and take a breath. Melissa squeezes his hand. “So we went – met him at the house, and then – when nothing was happening, someone asked what was going on, and Chris told us he had found one – one living here. In hiding. I mean, I knew it had to be Mr. Meyers, since I knew he had been a ro – a PDSS. I was there when he was captured.

“Kira asked Chris what he was going to do, and he said ‘what do you think’ or something like that and then he and Boyd’s dad and a couple other people just busted into the house and I thought – I thought I should do something, but I didn’t know what to do. Kira called 911. She didn’t say much, didn’t want anyone to hear her, she just – she just called and said ‘I’m at this address and someone is about to die’ and then hung up.

“Then Chris dragged him out of the house and his daughter was behind him and Mr. Boyd was, you know, keeping a hold on her, and I thought – this was wrong, he couldn’t just do this, but I didn’t – I mean, I had my gun, but I couldn’t fight Chris, I couldn’t – so I just _stood_ there, and tried to convince myself I was okay with it, but he – Mr. Meyers – ”

Scott’s voice breaks. It takes him several tries to speak again. “He looked scared,” he finally chokes out. “The ones during the Rising never looked scared. They didn’t look anything. You could put them down and it was like they didn’t even notice. But this time – he knew what was happening and he didn’t want to die and I – ”

He presses one hand over his face, shuddering hard. Melissa gathers him back into her arms, rocking him back and forth.

“And Miss Meyers, she fell and she’s crying and I just _stood_ there with my thumb up my ass. Stiles – Stiles got out of his dad’s car, knowing that he’s in the middle of a crowd of people who want his head on a spike, and he just – he just helps her up, helps her over to her dad – Stiles is a fucking zombie and he showed more humanity in that moment than any of us – ” Scott buries his face in his mother’s shoulder, holding on as hard as he can, and stops speaking entirely.

It’s a long time before Scott has stopped trembling. Melissa takes the soda into the kitchen and gets him a glass of water instead. Then she sits down across the table from him and takes one of his hands, squeezing it hard while he sips his water.

“I want you to understand something, Scott,” Melissa says, when she’s judged that he’s ready to listen. “Chris Argent is a hero. He’s a courageous, selfless, amazing man who probably saved this town almost single-handedly. Not just by leading the HVF, but through his connections, using his own money to get us what we needed at a time when the rest of us didn’t know what to do. I don’t want you thinking that I don’t respect Chris, or that I’m not grateful for what he’s done. But he’s _sick_ , Scott. It’s not entirely his fault, maybe not even his fault at all, but he is. This hatred he has for the PDSS is like a poison inside him, and it’s going to destroy him eventually. But God, Scott, baby, I don’t want the same thing to happen to you. You don’t have to love what the PDSS did. You don’t have to be happy with them being here. But you _do_ have to work towards some sort of acceptance of that.”

Scott nods and wipes a hand over his eyes. “Okay,” he chokes out. She pulls him into a hug. “What . . . what should I do?”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” Melissa says. “You have to make your own choices. But I can give you some advice. I think it would be a good idea to take your name off the permanent roster. Do what Kira does. Take a patrol now and then when he needs you to fill in. But take yourself out of the rotation. Think about taking a class or two. Take Kira out on a real date. Start volunteering at the animal shelter again, or think about going back to work. I know . . .” She reaches out and puts a hand on his chest. “Somewhere in here, still beats the heart of my ten-year-old boy who wanted to be an animal doctor. I don’t want you to lose that dream. You know the vet clinic would be happy to have you back.”

“Yeah . . .” Scott nods again. “Maybe. I just . . .” He looks away. “It’s hard. To focus on that kind of stuff. I’ve thought about it, but then I’ll be . . . standing at the shelter and working and suddenly I’m in the forest again, fighting for my life, and I . . .”

Melissa smoothes down his hair. “There’s _nothing_ shameful in that, Scott. You went through hell. We all did. We’ve all reacted differently to it. And I know you were out there on the front lines, a lot of the time. You don’t have to be okay. We’ll work through this, together. Okay?”

“Okay,” Scott says. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, hugging him. “You don’t have to thank me.”

Scott chews on his lower lip for a minute, then takes a drink of his water. “Stiles, uh . . . he seemed . . . he seemed okay tonight.”

“He was scared out of his wits, so don’t let his suave demeanor fool you,” Melissa says dryly. “Though I think he was more afraid for his father than for himself.”

“Well,” Scott says, with a wan smile, “that’s Stiles.” He’s silent for a minute. “He’s the same. I’ve changed so much, and he . . . he’s still Stiles.”

“You’ve changed, and he’s changed,” Melissa says. “I’ve changed. Change isn’t _bad_ , Scott. It’s natural. But he has changed, trust me. He’s changed, but he’s still Stiles. And you’re still Scott. And if you’re not ready to see him, that’s okay. But I think that the two of you are going to be okay.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Scott says, and leans on her shoulder.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Tom is halfway through his second cup of coffee when Parrish comes in. The deputy shuts the door after himself and sits down. “So, what do you figure?”

“Breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon, assault with intent to commit murder,” Tom says, pushing a hand over his hair. “We can get Vernon Boyd on breaking and entering and regular assault. I assume they haven’t said anything.”

“No, they’re smarter than that,” Parrish says. He’s quiet for a minute. “It won’t stick.”

“What do you mean, it won’t stick?” Tom asks, frowning.

“Well, the DA is Mike Whittemore,” Parrish says. “He was in the HVF. His son was in the HVF. He won’t prosecute.”

“He has to prosecute,” Tom says. “That’s his _job_.”

“He’ll find an excuse not to,” Parrish says. “You know he will. Or he’ll just let them plea bargain out of it. Since PDSS only count as half a person, you can’t use a first-degree attempted murder charge. And let’s not forget that the county judge is Chris’ father.”

“He’d have to recuse himself, send it to someone else,” Tom says.

“Yeah, I know, but he’d know exactly who to send it to, who would be sympathetic to the HVF cause.”

“Look, what are you getting at?” Tom asks. “Because if you’re angling for me to let them off without trying to press charges, that’s not going to happen.”

“All I’m saying is that, since it’s not going to come to anything,” Parrish says, carefully, “you could earn yourself some points with some of the voters by – ”

“No!” Tom slaps a hand down on his desk. “God damn it! There are things I won’t do; there are lines I will not fucking cross! Chris Argent nearly murdered a man in the middle of the street while my son sat in the car watching! Mike Whittemore can do what he’s going to do and answer to his own conscience. And I’ll answer to mine. I – shit, hang on,” he says, as his cell phone rings. He glances down at the screen and sees that it’s Stiles. “It’s Stiles, I have to – hey, buddy, what’s up?”

“Daddy,” Stiles says in a small, trembling voice, “I need you to come home. I think – I think someone’s in the house. I can’t – ”

Tom practically trips over his own feet as he bolts to the door. “Are you in the panic room?” he demands.

“Yes,” Stiles chokes out. “Yes, but I can hear them moving around and I’m scared, I – ”

“I’m on my way, just – just don’t leave that room,” Tom says. “I have to hang up so I can drive, I’ll be _right there_ – ”

He doesn’t even think about everything that’s been going on at the station. He doesn’t care that by the time he’s made sure Stiles is okay, Chris might have posted bail and be out. He can’t do anything about that, so there’s no point in worrying about it.

He pulls into the driveway and skids to a halt. The front door is shut and locked, and the house looks undisturbed. He doesn’t take much notice of that, taking the steps two at a time on his way to the basement. His hands are shaking as he punches the code and tugs the door open to find Stiles inside, curled up in the back corner, knees pulled to his chest.

“Stiles,” he says, kneeling down in front of him. Stiles’ head is resting on his folded arms, but he glances up a little at this. “Stiles, it’s me, you’re okay.”

“Someone’s here,” Stiles whimpers, clutching at his shirt.

“I’m here now, no one’s going to hurt you while I’m here,” his father says, rocking him back and forth. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

Almost ten full minutes pass before Stiles finally looks up and wipes a hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you were busy.”

“It’s fine, Stiles,” Tom says. “Let’s go take a look around, okay?”

“Uh huh.”

Tom gets Stiles to his feet. He looks at the graffiti on the safe room door and his jaw squares in anger, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He keeps Stiles behind him while he checks every room, every closet, every cupboard. The house is empty except for the two of them. Stiles sinks onto the sofa and emanates self-loathing.

“There probably wasn’t anyone here,” he says dully. “I was probably just imagining it. I made you leave work for nothing.”

“You did the right thing,” his father says firmly. “Better safe than sorry.”

Stiles just shakes his head. He looks up, fear and anguish raw on his face. “Dad, maybe . . . maybe we should just leave. I don’t like it here anymore.”

Tom hesitates. Then he says, “We’ll do whatever’s best for you, Stiles. But I don’t think now is really a good time to make decisions. What happened today was really upsetting. We both need some time to process it.”

“Okay.” Stiles gets to his feet, trembling. “I’ll – I’ll make you some tea, okay?”

“Sure,” Tom says. He doesn’t give a fig about tea, but he knows that Stiles needs to move, needs to do something productive. He sits down in the kitchen while Stiles moves around. His phone chimes and he glances down at it. “Huh,” he says.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, trying to sound curious instead of panicky.

“Melissa. She wasn’t sure you’d still be up, but wanted to let you know that her talk with Scott went well, and she thinks he’s going to be okay.”

“Oh.” Some of the tension leaves Stiles’ body. “Okay. That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Tom glances at the basement steps. Regardless of whether or not anyone had been in the house while Stiles there, someone had been in at some point. With people coming and going replacing the windows, it would have been easy. This is the third time their house has been vandalized. The third time in two weeks.

“Dad?” Stiles says quietly, seeing his gaze fixed on the stairs. “Can I – tell you something? Promise not to be angry?”

Tom glances over and says, “How about I promise not to yell?”

Stiles swallows and nods. “Yeah. Okay. I . . . people have called and said . . . some nasty things. Left messages. I deleted them without telling you.”

Tom’s knuckles creak as his fists clench and relax. “What sort of nasty things?”

“Uh, death threats,” Stiles says, not looking up. “You know. Pretty standard.”

Tom takes a deep breath. “Why did you delete them, Stiles?”

“I just – I knew you would get angry and that you would go try to hunt them down and you’re going to lose the election and, I don’t want my being here to ruin your life.” Stiles’ hands shake so hard that he spills the water. “God, this is exactly what I was afraid – I _told_ Dr. Deaton I couldn’t – I should just go back to – ”

“No.” Tom is out of his chair, gripping Stiles by the upper arms. “Now you listen to me, Stiles. I don’t care about my job, about this town, about whoever’s calling us. There is _nothing_ I would not sacrifice to have you back in my life. Do you understand that? Nothing. I don’t care if I lose the election, I don’t care if I get recalled. I don’t care if we have to move to a deserted island in the middle of the ocean. As long as I have you back, _nothing_ else matters to me. Is that clear?”

“I’m not . . .”

“You are my _son_ ,” Tom says. “I love you more than anything else in the world. We’re going to take care of this together. But don’t you think for an instant about running away. Don’t you _ever_ think that I would be happier if you weren’t here. Okay?”

Stiles gives a sad little hiccup and nods. “Okay.”

Tom hugs him, rubs his back and smoothes his hair. “Now, if you can remember when the calls came in, I can get the phone records and figure out who made them.”

“I wrote them all down.” Stiles gives a wan smile. “You know, just in case I regretted deleting them.”

“Good,” Tom says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek is lying on the couch in his studio, listening to music with his eyes closed, when he hears the door open and shut. “What do you want, Uncle Peter?” he asks, not opening his eyes.

Peter drags a chair over and sits a few feet away, turning it around so he’s straddling it backwards. “Well, I thought you might want to hear about what’s been going on with your little boyfriend, but if you’d prefer to live in ignorant isolation, feel free.”

“He’s not my – ugh, why do I even bother,” Derek mutters. He sits up and rubs a hand over his face. Then he sees that Peter, for all his joking, looks unwontedly serious. His stomach runs ice cold. “What? What happened?”

“Argent found one of us,” Peter says simply.

“Is Stiles okay?”

“Last I heard,” Peter says. He looks pensive. “My sources haven’t yet figured out how Chris found him. Bribes, extortion, general Argent skullduggery. But he found Meyers. Broke into his house with a few of his cronies, dragged him outside, and put a gun at the back of his head while his daughter watched.”

“Jesus,” Derek says, with feeling. “What happened?”

“Someone called 911. No idea who. The sheriff showed up and put a stop to it. He must have been out somewhere with Stiles, because he was in the car.”

“They like to go out on drives late at night,” Derek says, as if it’s relevant.

“Mm. Well. Argent and one of his boys were arrested, but they’ve already posted bail. Our dear district attorney is already making noise about how he’s _sure_ that Argent wouldn’t have acted against Meyers without reason, so the odds that he’ll be prosecuted are slim.”

“He can’t just – he can’t just _not prosecute_ him, can he?”

“Well, that’s a debatable point,” Peter says. “There’s wiggle room within the law, but even a slippery fish like Whittemore can only wiggle so much. My guess is that he’ll plea bargain. They’ll settle on a lesser charge, like simple assault, and then they’ll find a sympathetic judge who will say he doesn’t deserve jail time, due to his service in the HVF, et cetera, et cetera. He’ll pay a fine, which of course someone else in the community will cover for him, and get community service. Anger management classes.” Peter chuckles, as if the idea of Chris Argent in anger management classes is hilarious.

“Jesus,” Derek mutters.

“Meyers and his daughter have already left town, of course,” Peter says. “I might be inclined to follow them, if things keep up this way. You’d be welcome to keep the house, of course.”

Derek nods. He looks around at the stacks of paintings. Work that keeps him occupied, but will never see the light of day. Who is he even doing it for? “I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” he says.

“Mm.” Peter stands up and leaves the studio without another word. Derek considers for a long minute, then picks up his phone and calls Stiles.

“Hey, I heard about what happened,” he says.

“Which part?” Stiles sounds small and scared, and Derek really hates that.

“Meyers and Argent.” Derek frowns. “What else happened?”

“Oh, you know. Death threats. People breaking into my house and painting ‘you’re next’ on our panic room door.”

“Jesus,” Derek says, for what feels like the eightieth time in the past ten minutes.

“Yeah, my dad’s pissed,” Stiles says. “He was so badass last night, though, you really should’ve seen it. I should’ve gotten it on film. He would’ve been a YouTube sensation. That or a pariah. I mean. Who knows, given everything going on.”

“Look, someone cares,” Derek says. “Someone called the cops, right? So at least one person watching knew that Chris was doing the wrong thing.”

“That’s true,” Stiles says, his voice brightening a little.

Derek’s relieved to hear him cheering up. “You should come out to the house later. Could your dad drive you? I want – ” He doesn’t realize what he’s saying until he’s blurting it out. “I want to paint you.”

“You – what? Like, you want to put paint on me, or you want to put my likeness on canvas? Is this going to be like Titanic?” Now Stiles is sounding like his own self again. “That scene was like my sexual awakening; I’m not sure which of those two I was more attracted to.”

Derek’s brain helpfully supplies a bunch of mental images of Stiles, naked, in various positions. Hormones that he didn’t think he was still capable of producing approve of these images. “Uh, I want to put your likeness on canvas, but you can keep your clothes.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Dad’s busy at the station today, but I’ll have him drive me over tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure,” Derek says. “That sounds good.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just making up stuff about the Hale family and the fire, don't mind me~

 

It shouldn’t be possible for a dead person to get a headache, Derek thinks. Their pain receptors are really only minimally functioning. He had hit his thumb with a hammer while putting one of his projects together, and beyond the initial shock, it hadn’t really felt like much. But if there’s one person who’s capable of causing a migraine in the Undead, it has to be his uncle Peter.

“I’m just saying,” Peter says, “that you’re nervous, and it’s adorable.”

Derek looks Heavenward and prays for patience. “I just want a yes or no answer, Uncle Peter. Yes. Or no.”

“That’s not what you want,” Peter says, and Derek thinks about throttling him. It won’t change anything, but it might make him feel better. “You just want reassurance. Stiles is going to find you just as cute without the godawful makeup, I assure you.”

Derek thinks about this. “So that’s a no.”

Peter sighs. “No. Don’t wear the makeup.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, and heads back towards his studio, muttering ‘was that so hard’ underneath his breath. Peter isn’t known for giving straight answers, but still, he hadn’t expected a twenty minute Q&A over the simple question ‘do you think I should put on my makeup before Stiles gets here’. He’d had it on the last few times, but Stiles doesn’t wear his, not even to the support group.

This feels a little different, though. This time he asked Stiles over. To paint him, no less. He feels awkward and uncertain. He’s never been good at this sort of thing. Hell, he’s not even sure what ‘this sort of thing’ _is_ , when it comes to Stiles.

Fortunately for him, Stiles doesn’t seem to notice. He greets him with his normal level of enthusiasm and starts looking at the painting Derek was doing earlier that day. “So what should I do?” he asks. “I’ve never been a model before. Should I pose? French girl? Jazz hands?”

Derek gives an amused shake of his head. “No. Just . . . move around, be yourself. I’m just going to sketch you for a bit, get used to drawing you.”

“Oh, yeah? That’s cool,” Stiles says. Derek sits down with his sketchbook, gaze flicking over Stiles as he wanders around the studio. He has the windows open, as it’s a beautiful late spring day, and there’s plenty of light. Stiles is fidgety, like always, nervous. “So have you always wanted to be an artist?” he asks, and Derek nods. “Your mom was one, right?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “So was my dad, in his free time. He did wood carving. Mom did painting. A lot of murals. In the summer, we would all go out and do huge chalk drawings on the street.”

“That’s cool,” Stiles says. “My mom always liked to cook and to garden, and I got a lot of that from her, too. I’ve been cleaning up our backyard. You should come over sometimes, I can show you. It’s pretty messed up right now, but I’m going to plant some flowers and stuff.”

Derek’s gaze moves between his notebook and Stiles as the sketch starts to take shape. “I heard they put a Memorial Garden where our house used to be.”

“Yeah, I think we drove by it once,” Stiles says. “Hey, can I look through these?”

He’s pointing to a stack of Derek’s old sketchbooks. “Sure,” he says, “but a lot of it’s pretty messy.”

“That’s okay.” Stiles picks the first one up. It’s full of faces and rooms he doesn’t recognize. “How old are these?”

“About six months. They gave me a sketch book while I was in the PDS facility in Bakersfield. I drew a lot of the other inmates.”

Stiles nods a little, still flipping through. “Hey, I think . . . I think I know her.” He holds up a picture of a woman with short hair. She’s holding a gun and standing in a firing stance. “She’s familiar, but I can’t place her. Why did you draw her like this?”

“I . . .” Derek keeps his gaze trained on his paper. “I have very clear memories of what happened during the Rising. Clearer than most. I drew some of my victims. I thought it might . . . help. It didn’t.”

“Oh.” Stiles puts the book down and picks up another one. “This is your old house, right? And this picture is of your mother.”

“Yeah.” Derek glances up as Stiles moves around and flips to a new page. “We don’t have any photographs left, so I’ve tried to draw some pictures of the family.” He’s silent while Stiles walks over and sits down next to him, flipping through the pages. “That’s my dad and my younger brother. My Uncle Andrew.”

“Who’s this?” Stiles asks, hovering on a picture of a long-haired woman holding a baby.

“Aunt Olivia. Peter’s wife. They had two kids, the youngest was just a few months old during the fire.”

Stiles closes the book. “I remember my dad talking about that a little. About how awful it must have been. He tried to help Peter, you know. My dad, he’s had some problems with alcohol in college, and he’s got a strong family history of alcoholism. I think it really bothered him to see what happened to your uncle, but . . . he wouldn’t accept help.”

“Well, that’s Peter,” Derek says.

“Kind of ironic, though, isn’t it?” Stiles asks. “I mean . . . he basically killed himself. And now he’s back. But he seems okay with it.”

“Yeah.” Derek starts sketching again as Stiles gets up and starts moving around the studio again. “My roommate at the facility had actually committed suicide, and he wasn’t happy to be back at all. I wouldn’t be surprised he got someone to shoot him in the head when he was released. But Peter . . . he says he still misses Olivia and the children, but he feels like he must be back for some reason.”

“What is it?” Stiles asks.

Derek just shrugs. “Sometimes I wonder . . . why I’m the one who came back. I mean, I know the scientific reasons for it. I know that my family’s bodies were probably too badly burned to actually recover any motor function. I have this bad dream . . .” He looks up at Stiles, then away. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”

“No, tell me,” Stiles says, pulling the chair over and sitting down so they’re facing.

“I have this dream . . .” Derek concentrates on his sketch, on capturing Stiles’ likeness on the paper. “That they’re awake inside their coffins. That they have PDS, but weren’t strong enough to get out . . .”

“Jesus.” Stiles shudders. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah.” Derek keeps his gaze on the sketch. “I mean, it’s bullshit. The government exhumed everyone who died in the eighteen months before the Rising, and cremated them, just in case. They didn’t want another outbreak, so . . . so I know it can’t be true. But it was months before they did that. I mean, they kind of had bigger problems. So sometimes I just think of them trapped there.”

“I guess that’s one problem I don’t have.” Stiles pulls a leg up to his chest and rests his chin on his knee. “Nobody else came back?”

“My brother did. My younger brother.” Derek glances up. “During the fire, I ran into his room to get him. He was hiding in his closet, because he was scared. The stairs had fallen and he couldn’t get down. I was going to jump out the window with him. I thought we’d be okay. But he was scared. So I thought, ‘I’ll just sit down and stay with him for a minute, while he calms down’. Only I guess I passed out. That’s one thing I don’t remember.”

“I guess there are worse ways to go,” Stiles says. “What happened to your little brother during the Rising?”

Derek just shakes his head.

“I’m really sorry,” Stiles says. “I mean . . . to lose him twice, that’s almost worse.”

“Yeah.” Derek shakes his head. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay, yeah, sure.” Stiles jumps out of the chair and starts pacing around again.

“Death threats?” Derek asks, after a minute.

“Yeah.” Stiles rubs a hand over his head. “Phone calls. My dad’s trying to track them down. Just standard shit. Except for the person who broke into the house. I thought . . . the other night, I thought someone had gotten into the house. I had to hide in the panic room and call my dad. I don’t know if anyone was even there. God, I felt so . . . humiliated. It’s like, even if I was physically capable of protecting myself, I can’t, you know? Because the moment I hurt someone else, _everything_ will go to shit.”

“That’s true,” Derek says, nodding.

“Not that that was, you know, on my mind when I called my dad to come save me,” Stiles says, with a wry smile.  “But still.”

“Yeah.” Derek sketches quietly for a few minutes.

Stiles finally stops pacing, leaning against the window. “Hey, Derek . . . are you glad you’re here?”

Derek looks up, stops, thinks about it. “Yeah,” he says. “For Cora’s sake, really. No other reason. I’m the only family she has left now, besides Peter, who doesn’t count. I hate the idea of her being alone. So as long as she’s glad to have me, I’m glad I can be here for her.”

“My dad said something really close to that,” Stiles says. “That no matter what happens, he’s glad to have me back. Every day is . . .” Stiles turns to look out the window so he doesn’t have to face Derek. “It’s really hard,” he finally says. “Every morning. I wake up and I think . . . I could get up, but what’s the point? It’s just going to be another day full of pain and fear and sorrow . . . filling my time with stupid shit . . . it’s such a fucking _waste_. But maybe your uncle is right. Maybe we’re here for some reason . . .”

Derek doesn’t say anything, because he’s not really listening. In that moment, standing with the sun illuminating his pale skin, Stiles looks somewhere between a ghost and an angel. He doesn’t look _real_ , and yet he’s completely beautiful. Derek’s pen scratches over the paper in an effort to catch the moment, to etch the look of confused sorrow and desperate hope on Stiles’ face into his paper so he’ll never forget it. He doesn’t think he ever will. He thinks he’ll see that image behind his eyelids for the rest of eternity, and he’s glad of it.

“Sorry, I guess I was rambling,” Stiles finally says, turning to look at him. He sees the look on Derek’s face and says, “What?”

“Nothing,” Derek says. “I was drawing you. You’re beautiful.”

Stiles’ jaw sags a little and he looks away, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. Derek thinks he would be blushing, except they can’t anymore. “Oh, uh . . . okay.”

Derek clears his throat. “Um, I’ll just . . . finish this later. You want to go watch a movie?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “Yeah. Good idea.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Tom stares down at the piles of paperwork on his desk in absolute disgust. In the end, it had gone down almost exactly as Parrish had predicted. Whittemore hadn’t been able to get around the fact that a blatant crime had been committed, but he had certainly come close. He had simply ‘advised the court’ that the state felt leniency was applicable in this case. Chris’ lawyer – one of Whittemore’s college buddies – had offered a plea deal. They would plead guilty to assault, if the state would dismiss the more serious charges.

Chris’ father, Gerard Argent, was a county judge. He’d made sure the case got kicked to one of his pals who would approve of a light sentence. So now Chris had ‘PDS reeducation’ classes that he doubtlessly wouldn’t attend, and a hundred hours of community service, which was being put down as ‘time served’. After all, what could be a greater community service than running the HVF?

Chris Argent had come within inches of murdering someone in the street, and had gotten off with a slap on the wrist. Tom burned with the injustice of it, but he had to admit that some good things had come out of it, too. He had received his share of death threats and hate mail, but he had also received a surprising amount of support. The op-ed in the paper that ran after Susan Whittemore’s column about how Chris Argent was a tireless hero had been written by an anonymous woman who accused Argent of being a delusional tyrant.

“Yes, we all lost people in the Rising,” the woman wrote, “but so many of us have friends or family who are now recovering from PDS. Is this how we want them treated when they come home?”

He suspects that the author of the article was Erica Reyes’ mother, but the comments it had received in the website were equal part support and criticism. He had received letters from people commending his honesty and commitment to the law. Some people even admitted they were leery of reintegration, but felt that Tom’s method of handling it was better than Chris’. ‘Beacon Hills can’t be a war zone forever,’ someone wrote. He’s even received a fair number of campaign donations, which is somewhat amusing, since at the moment, he’s running unopposed. He expects that will change shortly. The deadline for registering as a candidate is coming up.

He shares these letters and comments with Stiles, and he doesn’t exactly get excited about them, but it does seem to ease some of the crushing weights he’s been floundering underneath lately. He smiles a little more often.

The other good thing that had come out of this was the change in Scott. Tom had been texting back and forth with Melissa about it all week. Scott had decided to drop out of the regular patrol rotation, and only pick up extra shifts or respond to emergencies. He was talking about getting his GED. Kira has decided to go to college in San Francisco in the next year or so, and he’s talking about maybe going with her.

Tom knows that Kira is the one who made the 911 call, since it came from her cell phone. He had then deleted that information out of the station’s computer system. He doesn’t want anybody harassing her. But he’s glad that Scott has support from her.

The other phone records he had pulled were useless. All of the death threats the Stilinski house had received where from pre-paid cell phones with no traceable information. So he’s at a dead end where that’s concerned.

He’d like to say that he doesn’t think Stiles is actually in any danger. Chris Argent has obviously decided that, at least for the time being, he won’t strike directly at the Stilinski family. But someone has broken into their house at least once. The panic room can keep Stiles safe – if he gets there in time – but he hates being in there. Besides, what if they decide to burn the house down? He doesn’t know enough about PDS to know if Stiles could survive that. He doesn’t think that anyone does.

Besides, he can’t keep Stiles inside forever. He still isn’t thrilled with the idea of going out, but he _has_ gone to Derek’s a few times. He goes to the support group. And Lydia has been slowly but surely making progress in her efforts to get him to go somewhere with her. Sooner or later, Stiles is going to agree to go to the mall or something, and what then?

Tom rubs a hand over his face and tries not to dwell on it. He still has all the other affairs of being the sheriff to attend to. He’s wading through a stack of reports about a bunch of car thefts when his phone rings. He glances over and sees Stiles’ name on the screen. His stomach jumps, but he keeps his voice calm as he picks up. “Hey, you. What’s up?”

“Dad, some guy is painting on our garage door again.” Stiles doesn’t sound scared. If anything, he sounds disgusted.

Tom sighs. “Okay. I’m a little busy, so I’ll send someone around.”

“But Dad, he says he has a permit.”

“A permit?” Tom asks, frowning. “What kind of permit?”

“He says that the mayor passed some regulation saying the houses of PDSS have to be marked,” Stiles says. “He’s got all this legal stuff and I don’t know how to read it.”

“Jesus,” Tom says. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

When he gets to the house, he finds a widely smirking Jackson Whittemore waiting for him. Stiles is sitting on the front step, sulking. Tom isn’t surprised that he decided not to go into the panic room, but he is surprised that Stiles decided to sit outside and keep an eye on the other kid. “Jackson,” he says, nodding to him and looking at his handiwork. Rather than death threats or epithets, Jackson has simply spray painted ‘PDS’ on their garage door in large black letters.

“Sheriff,” Jackson says, still smirking.

Tom holds his hand out for the paperwork. Jackson hands it over without protest. Tom looks through it, and it looks legal. He gets on the phone and makes a couple calls to confirm that it is. He thinks about asking why he wasn’t notified of this new regulation, but decides against it.

“We cool?” Jackson asks, taking the papers back.

“Get off my property,” Tom responds.

Jackson just smirks wider and goes towards his motorcycle. Before he can leave, Stiles gets off the porch and heads forward. “Hey. Hey!” he shouts, pushing his way past Tom, who tries to grab him. “You’re not done yet! Don’t you want to mark me, too? Tattoo a number on my arm? Write it across my face, maybe? Give me your paint, asshole! We’re not done here!”

“Stiles, don’t – ” Tom says, getting an arm over his chest.

“What’s the point?” Stiles yells. “You all know I’m fucking PDS! Everyone knows I live here, and I’m the only one, so what’s the point?”

“You’re not the only one,” Jackson says simply. “We haven’t found the others yet, but we will.”

“Is that a threat?” Stiles asks.

“Just a statement of fact, little man,” Jackson says, and gets on his bike. He drives off, leaving Stiles seething behind him.

“This is _bullshit_ ,” Stiles snarls.

“Well, I’m fairly sure it’s unconstitutional,” Tom says dryly. “But we’ll have to challenge it legally if we want to get anywhere. So just . . .” He lets out a breath. “I’m going to go back to work. You want me to drop you off at Derek or Lydia’s on my way?”

“No, I just . . . I was in the middle of some of my coursework, so I’ll just . . .” Stiles is clearly still fuming. “Maybe I’ll go clean something.”

“Okay.” Tom gets him by the elbow. “Hey. I’m proud of you. That’s the first time you stood up for yourself.”

“What? Oh.” Stiles rubs a hand over his hair. “He just made me mad, that’s all.”

“I know,” Tom says, and gives him a hug. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Okay.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is beginning to regret the day he welcomed Lydia Martin into his house. He knows that she’s been good for him, and that he’s probably been good for her, too. She’s kept him busy, kept his mind occupied, given him a real reason to want his integration to work out. But she’s also the reason he’s sitting in a parking lot outside a Jamba Juice, wishing he was anywhere else.

‘Desensitization’ was Lydia’s new project. Whether Stiles liked it or not, he had to start some sort of social interaction again. He couldn’t hide in his house forever. Whenever he tried to argue that he _could_ , or that he had made friends with her and Derek, she always had a thousand reasons for why he needed to nut up.

“Look,” she said, two weeks after someone had broken in and painted ‘you’re next’ on his door. “Here’s the thing. You feel like you’re not safe out there, which I get. But you also feel like you’re not safe in here. So . . . if there’s nowhere safe, you might as well take a chance and see what’s out there. Right?”

“I hate your logic and I hate you,” Stiles replied.

“Sure you do, sweetie. Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said to him, tossing her perfect hair. “I need a smoothie. So we’re going to go down to Jamba Juice. We’re going to walk in. I’m going get my smoothie, and then we’ll leave. You won’t even have to say anything to anyone. And if anyone talks shit about you, I will take off my leg and beat them with it. Okay?”

It wasn’t okay, but Lydia was growing immune to his whining. She also brought makeup. She futzed around with it for a while, then started applying foundation to his face. Twenty minutes later, she said, “Okay, mirror.”

Stiles turned and was frankly stunned at what she had accomplished with her little compacts. He looked normal again. Okay, the contacts still made his eyes a little too brown, but hardly anyone would notice that. His skin was actually skin-toned. He could see his moles. The collar of his plaid shirt hid most of the scars and staples on his neck. “Holy shit, Lydia,” he said.

“I _told_ you that we need to go to Sephora,” Lydia said archly.

Stiles thought back to the way Jennifer and Erica had both complained about the quality of the makeup they were given, and wonders if anyone would care if he brought Lydia to the support group to give pointers.

All of this led to him sitting in this parking lot outside Jamba Juice. Lydia’s giving him a minute. Then she looks over at him and says, “I could quote Macbeth, if it would help.”

“Screw your courage to the sticking point,” Stiles agrees.

Lydia looks like she has a headache. “Sticking _place_ ,” she says.

“Everyone died in Macbeth anyway,” Stiles says.

“Well, we’re not going to die in a Jamba Juice. There are zoning ordinances against it. So let’s go.”

Stiles winces and gets out of the car. When no alarm sirens go off and people don’t leap out of the hedges to try to chop his head off, he follows her into the Jamba Juice. There are a few people already there. A couple in the corner drinking their smoothies and playing on their phones. One person ordering, one person waiting for a drink. Two behind the counter.

Lydia walks up when it’s their turn, and the girl behind the counter, who’s only a teenager, gives them a perky smile and says, “What can I . . . get . . . for you?” Her eyes have gone saucer wide and she clearly finishes the sentence on reflex, staring at Stiles. This draws the attention of everyone else, who start staring equally. Stiles wants to make a run for it, but Lydia has a tight grip on his hand.

“I will have a medium Peach Perfection smoothie,” Lydia says to the cashier, as if everything’s normal, “with an antioxidant boost.”

“I . . . what?” the cashier says, still staring at Stiles.

Lydia snaps her fingers in front of the cashier’s face. “Over here,” she says, and the girl jerks back to attention. “Medium. Peach perfection. Antioxidant boost.”

“Oh, uh, yes,” the cashier says, and starts punching buttons on her register. She clears her throat. “Anything else for you?”

“That’s it,” Lydia says, and hands the girl her card. Then they stand off to the side, to wait for her smoothie to be made.

Everyone is still staring. Lydia is clearly above that, keeping her chin lifted and gaze on the counter where her smoothie will appear. Stiles can’t take it anymore, though; he blurts out, “God, guys, do you want to take my picture? It’d last longer. Selfie with the walking dead! Only five bucks a pop!”

Two people giggle. The cashier gapes. Lydia rolls her eyes.

“Five bucks seems a little steep,” the person in line after Lydia, a girl about her age, says. “I  mean, geez, you’re not Johnny Depp.”

“True, but, I have the corner on the dead-person-selfie market,” Stiles says. “You’re not going to get that anywhere else. And this is a limited-time offer! Because God only knows where Lydia will manage to coax me out of the house again.”

The girl walks over and takes her selfie with him. Then, with an impish smile, she drops a five dollar bill into the Jamba Juice tip jar.

“Uh, your smoothie,” the cashier says, putting Lydia’s up on the counter.

“Thank you,” Lydia says, picking it up. She heads for the door with Stiles trailing along behind her. “Well,” she says, sipping her smoothie as she gets into the car, “let’s see how long it takes before hashtag-selfie-with-the-walking-dead is trending on Twitter.”

“Oh God,” Stiles says. “If I go viral, I’m moving to Siberia.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this chapter is full of assholes.
> 
> Did I, uh, mention that this fic is probably going to be pretty long? Or do y'all just expect that from me by now? ^_^;;;

 

It goes viral.

By the end of the day, #selfiewiththewalkingdead is indeed trending on twitter. But it hasn’t gone at all the way that Stiles expected.

A picture of a teenaged girl and a smiling woman. ‘Mom’s home from the PDS facility, awesome! #selfiewiththewalkingdead’

A picture of two black men in their twenties. ‘Trejonn took a bullet for me in 2011. Now I’m giving him a place to stay. Proud of my bro. #selfiewiththewalkingdead’

A picture of an elderly couple taken by obviously unskilled hands. ‘Lost my wife of thirty-five years, didn’t know how to go on without her. Now I don’t have to. #selfiewiththewalkingdead’

The breadth and scope of the pictures is amazing. Stiles spends hours on Twitter, leafing through them. Things are difficult everywhere, and he knows that Beacon Hills isn’t the only place having trouble. But there _are_ people who are happy to have the people they know with PDSS with them again. It’s comforting in a way that he can’t put into words.

It’s a good thing, too, because things in other arenas of his life aren’t going anywhere near as well.

His first trip out with Lydia had encouraged him to try another. And then another. They went to the grocery store to buy a few things. They went to the arcade where he played one game of Donkey Kong and then retreated. They went out to rent a movie. They went to a bookstore. There were a lot of places in Beacon Hills that Lydia could think to run quick errands.

Some of them went better than others. Sometimes there were people who gaped and stared, pointed and whispered. Sometimes he got a friendly smile. Sometimes he got people making the sign of the cross at him. Sometimes people ask how he’s settling into Beacon Hills; other times they scream and call him a murderer.

Lydia’s car gets vandalized twice. First just with paint, and then the second time with slashed tired. Once someone slips a death threat into the book he buys. Twice the police show up because other patrons had called them to report a ‘rotter on the loose’. Once they just look at Stiles and sigh. The second time, they try to force him to leave. Lydia starts to read them the riot act, but Stiles decides he would rather just go.

To make things worse, the HVF seems to have an uncanny knack for knowing where he is. He suspects that they’ve set up surveillance near his house. They certainly have a network of informants working for them. Almost every trip out, within minutes of his arrival somewhere, two or three of them show up. They don’t approach him, don’t bother him. They just stand there, armed and dangerous and clearly considering whether or not they can get away with killing him.

“It’s harassment,” is his father’s opinion, when Stiles makes the mistake of mentioning it to him. “They can’t do that.”

“Give them five minutes and they’ll come up with a reason why they can,” Stiles remarks.

Lydia’s attitude about the entire thing is that there’s no hope for stupid people, and she ignores their detractors with a haughty nonchalance. Stiles puts up with it the first few times, but then starts to balk when she tries to get him to leave the house.

“Look, we set out to see if it would work,” he says. “To see if reintegration is possible in Beacon Hills. It isn’t. So just let it go, all right?”

 “Stiles, you can’t give up after – ”

“When can I give up, then?” Stiles asks. “Can you give me a list? An agenda or something? How many times do people have to fuck up your car? How many people get to call me a fucking rotter to my face? How many times does one of those HVF bastards get to pat his gun and smirk at me before I can say I gave it the old college try? Make me a syllabus, Lydia. You’re probably good at those. The sooner I can check off the requirements and stop torturing myself, the happier I’ll be.”

“Happy?” Lydia snarks right back. “Like you were _happy_ hiding in your guest room?”

“Maybe not,” Stiles says, “but it was a fuck of a lot better than this.”

Lydia taps her foot for a few moments, regarding him pensively. “Will you do one last thing with me?”

“What is it?” Stiles asks warily.

There’s a moment while Lydia presses her lips together. “You know that Jackson Whittemore and I used to date, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says. “The homecoming king and queen, blah, blah, blah. What does that have to do with anything?”

Lydia sighs. “Look, during the Rising . . . everything changed. For everyone. Obviously. There would be months where we didn’t even see each other. He was in the HVF, and he kind of . . . he grew up. And I was mostly trying to keep living my life as normally as I could. So we were still sort of together, but also sort of not. Then . . . I got hurt. And that changed me, a lot. And then it was Jackson who wanted to just go on pretending everything was the same, and it wasn’t. So we broke it off, for good that time.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, still not sure where she’s going with this.

“Well, last week, he called me, asking if he could see me. He said he wanted to try again, that things were different now. I said I would have coffee with him . . . but only if you could come too, and if he could be civil to you for ten minutes.”

Stiles gives her a look. “You want me to sit down and have coffee with Jackson Whittemore. The guy who spray painted my garage door. The guy who ostentatiously reloaded his gun when he saw me at the bookstore.”

Lydia grimaces. “I figured he’d say no! It was an easy way for me to get out of having to see him. I’ve had a lot of time to think, and I just . . . don’t want a relationship with him, for a lot of different reasons. But Jackson isn’t very good at taking no for an answer. So I thought using his macho HVF attitude would be a good way out. But he said okay. And now I’m kind of stuck if you won’t go.”

“Jesus, Lydia,” Stiles says, feeling grouchy about this. “If you don’t want to see him, why don’t you just fucking tell him that? Text him if you have to.”

“Look . . . I wasn’t, like, in _love_ with Jackson or anything,” Lydia says, twining a few strands of hair through her fingers. “But he was important to me. He was my friend. And he tried to be there for me after I got hurt, he just . . . wasn’t what I needed. I want to help him, okay? This stuff he’s doing with the HVF, it’s not good for him. If I can get him to sit down and talk with you, maybe it would help.”

Stiles sighs. “I guess one fewer person harassing me wouldn’t be a bad thing. Fine. But if he’s an asshole, I’m not putting up with it.”

“That’s fair,” Lydia says.

“If you weren’t in love with him, why did you date him for so long?” Stiles asks. He has trouble figuring out why anyone would date Jackson at all, but he chalks that up to girls being weird.

“It made sense,” Lydia says with a shrug. “He was the captain of the lacrosse team, the most popular guy in school. I . . . cared about stuff like that, back then.”

“What do you think it’s like, being in love?” Stiles asks, flopping back onto the sofa. When Lydia just looks away, her expression remote, he says, “Hey, have you been in love?”

“Yeah,” Lydia says. “Once.”

She obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, so Stiles says, “What do you think would happen if a PDSS fell in love? I mean, we don’t have hormones anymore, but uh . . . there’s this guy I met at the support group and he’s like . . . wow. An entire world of wow.”

“Well, obviously you have to tell me all about him,” Lydia says, and Stiles laughs a little, but he does. He tells her how he feels like he can really be himself around Derek, like Derek understands him, in a way that no one else can, because they haven’t gone through the same things. He enthuses about Derek for so long that Lydia starts laughing at him.

“What, shut up,” he says. “I just want to know if I can still get a boner, okay?”

Amused, Lydia says, “I don’t think a lot, if _any_ , research has been done into whether or not PDSS can still have sex. I just honestly don’t think it’s come up.”

“Pun intended, I hope.”

Lydia smacks him on the back of the head. “If you find out, let me know,” she says. “For science, of course.”

Stiles snickers despite himself. “For science.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Yikes, Chris,” Kate Argent says, as her brother stands back to let her into the apartment. “There’s ‘Spartan living’ and then there’s ‘are you aware of furniture’s existence’.”

“Hello to you too,” Chris says. “I didn’t invite you here to comment on my interior decorating.”

“Or lack thereof,” Kate says, and embraces him anyway. She gives the apartment another glance. The door leads into a single room that has a small counter along one wall, with a sink and a refrigerator. There’s a single wooden chair and a television on a rickety stand. A door off to one side leads into a bathroom, and there’s another closed door that she presumes leads to the bedroom.

“You want a beer?” Chris asks, going into the fridge.

“Love one,” Kate says, sitting in the single wooden chair. Chris is the one who didn’t bother with furniture; let him stand. She accepts the beer from him and pops the top. “Jesus, it’s nice to be here. It’s fucking a hundred ten degrees in Phoenix. I miss California sometimes.”

“We could use you here, if you wanted to stick around,” Chris says.

“So I’ve heard. Tell me about it.”

“We’ve got one rotter living here openly. The sheriff’s kid.” Chris pushes a hand through his hair. “Actually kind of a local hero. He and his friend were out in the woods and got caught by a mountain lion. He lured it away to save his friend’s life. It was kind of a big deal at the time. Anyway, the sheriff’s made it well known that anyone who messes with his kid will regret it, so he’s untouchable, at least for now. There are others here somewhere, but I haven’t been able to find them.”

“How many?” Kate asks.

“Not sure. Maybe as many as a dozen. I tracked down one. Was about to put a bullet in his head when the sheriff showed up.”

“So he’s a problem,” Kate says.

“Yeah. But not as big a problem as the fact that he’s gaining some support.” Chris takes a long drink of his beer. “His kid has been back for nearly two months now, and the world hasn’t ended. He’s showing up in stores, buying shit, being polite. Public opinion seems divided about fifty-fifty on the matter. Nobody really _wants_ rotters here, but too many people think they need to just lie down and take it, and he’s reinforcing that.”

“When’s the sheriff’s term up?”

“November, but so far he’s running unopposed.”

“So oppose him,” Kate says, and Chris laughs. “I’m serious, Chris. Run for sheriff. You’re a local hero. You’ve got a better chance of beating him than anyone else. And once you’re in charge, then you can rewrite the rules.”

“Like I have any idea how to run a political campaign,” Chris says.

Kate nods. “How’s Dad?”

“Curmudgeonly as always,” Chris says.

“Well, he got elected to his office, and he’s kept it,” Kate says. “He could probably help you out, get you in touch with the right people.”

“I’m also broke,” Chris says, gesturing to the apartment.

Kate folds her arms over her chest. “Stop giving excuses. If you don’t want to do it, just say so. But you know that if you can get support from the right people, money won’t be an issue. So do you want to do this, or don’t you?”

Chris doesn’t quite look at her. “I’m tired, Kate. Tired of cleaning up messes that other people made. I feel like I’m the only person who really believes in this stuff anymore. The government clearly doesn’t give a shit what happens. They just want to be able to shut down the facilities so they don’t have to pay for them anymore. They’ve got everyone convinced, and I just . . . I don’t know that I care anymore.”

“Yeah?” Kate gives him a hard look. “What if you found out that the rotter who killed Victoria was living here?”

“Then I’d kill him. Clean. Simple. No matter who tried to stop me. I don’t have any patience for political bullshit. I never have, and you know it.”

“Look, Chris, this is still a war,” Kate says. “We just have to fight it in a different way. It’s guerilla warfare now. That’s what we’ve been doing in Arizona. You heard about the law we passed there, that made the rotter registry open to the public, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Couldn’t believe you won that.”

“You know how we won it?” Kate asks. “We played dirty. Bribes, blackmail, extortion – we got the votes we needed, we did what we had to do.”

“That’s not how I fight,” Chris says.

“Then you’re going to lose, big bro.” Kate finished off her beer. “Go sign up to run for sheriff. Let me worry about everything else.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is tense and annoyed as he sits down at the coffee shop with Lydia. She’s dressed in a cute blouse and skirt that shows off her prosthetic leg. He has a feeling that Jackson won’t like that, and he’s right. He wonders, suddenly, if Jackson knows _which_ PDSS was responsible for what happened to Lydia. Of course, he has to. Stiles was captured literally at the scene of that crime.

Jackson’s jaw tightens as he sees Stiles, and then tightens more as he sees the leg. But he doesn’t say anything about it. He greets Lydia with an embrace and asks what he can get her. She asks for a caramel macchiato, then says, “Aren’t you going to say hello to Stiles?”

Jackson glowers at Stiles and says, “Hey.”

“Hi,” Stiles says, and Jackson stomps off towards the counter. Stiles sighs and resigns himself to a long afternoon.

When Jackson comes back, with Lydia’s macchiato and a coffee for himself, he seems determined to ignore Stiles. “So, uh . . . how’s your science stuff going?” he asks.

“Actually, it’s going very well,” Lydia says. “Stiles has been helping me with some of my experiments. Isn’t that right, Stiles?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says. “I’m her guinea pig.”

Jackson looks suspicious. “What sort of thing are you doing?”

“Well, we’re working on improving the quality of life for PDSS,” Lydia says.

“Kind of an oxymoron, isn’t it?” Jackson asks, with a snort. “I mean, there can’t really be quality of ‘life’ for someone who’s dead.”

“Partially dead,” Stiles says, mostly just to annoy Jackson.

“You look pretty dead to me, Stilinski,” Jackson says.

“Yeah, well, you look like someone with an IQ above that of an average grade schooler, but hey, looks can be deceiving,” Stiles snarks right back.

Jackson doesn’t flinch. “I guess Lydia did your makeup, since it’s not that gross orange stuff,” he says. “She’s always wanted to have a life-sized doll she could play dress up with.”

“Too bad for you,” Stiles shoots back, “because I already took that position, and I look fabulous in Sephora.”

Jackson’s glare becomes spiteful. “Lydia, what the fuck is he doing here?” he demands.

“Stiles is my friend,” Lydia says, “and if you can’t be civil to him, then we’re not going to have any sort of a relationship.” To Stiles, she says, “This is really what we fell out over. Jackson was, understandably, upset at what had happened to me. He didn’t understand why I _wasn’t_ upset. Why I wasn’t out there relentlessly campaigning against reintegration with him.”

“I still don’t,” Jackson says. “I don’t see how you can sit down with this, this _thing_ and call it your friend.”

“And the reason this upsets me,” Lydia says, still speaking to Stiles, rather than to Jackson, “is because first of all, he’s telling me that I don’t have the right to an opinion about my own experiences, but secondly, he’s actively denigrating the science that I believe in, that I’ve worked so hard to study. See, if he understood that science, if he had ever _listened_ to my explanations, he would know perfectly well why I can sit in this café, have a drink with you, and know that I’m _not_ sitting in a café with a ‘thing’, and certainly not with the thing that hurt me.”

“Jesus,” Jackson says, slumping back into his chair. “You make it sound like we didn’t talk about this. We did. And all I said was that I thought that they were going about it all wrong. They don’t want to pay to keep the facilities anymore, so they’re throwing them all back home, cramming it down our throats even though we have _totally valid_ reasons to be wary of it. They’re dumping it on us and making it our problem, just like they did during the God damned Rising itself, when they kept promising help was coming, but it never came.”

Stiles shakes his head a little. “Lyds, check me for a fever. All of that made sense to me.”

Jackson gives him an annoyed look.

Stiles sighs. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” he says. “I mean, you’re right. I didn’t want to come back, you know. I didn’t feel ready. Would another year or two in an inpatient setting have made me feel better? I honestly don’t know. But I do feel like there must have been a better solution than just shoving me out the door, into the arms of a man I hadn’t seen in a year, who _happened_ to be awesome about this but had every right not to be, and then saying ‘have fun in the war zone’.”

“Well, excuse the shit out of me if I don’t feel your pain, Stilinski,” Jackson sneers. “I spent two years of my life hunting you down. You finally rip out a chunk of my girlfriend’s leg, and now I have to sit here and watch your ugly mug when I want to have a coffee date.”

The sympathy Stiles had been feeling promptly evaporates. “Well, excuse the shit out of me if I don’t feel _your_ pain, you self-righteous ass,” he says. “I wasn’t aware that dying was a cardinal sin.”

“It’s not the dying part that bothered me,” Jackson says.

“Well, that’s the only fucking part that I was responsible for in this entire God damned mess, so if that’s not what you’re pissed about, what is it?”

“I just don’t like that after all the work we did to clean this place up, it’s going to be overrun with rotters again.”

“For God’s sake, half a dozen isn’t being overrun,” Stiles snaps. “Get your priorities in order, asswipe.”

He realizes what he said a bare moment after it escapes his lips. Jackson’s eyes narrow.

“Half a dozen, huh?” he says.

Stiles says nothing. He can’t take it back, and any attempts to deny will only throw fuel on the fire.

Jackson plays with a sugar packet. When he looks up, his eyes have gone cold and hard. There’s something in them that Stiles never would have expected to see there. Jackson might be an obnoxious pain in the ass, but he was also the veteran of a brutal war. He had killed before, and he could kill again.

“Who?” Jackson finally says.

Stiles stands up. “I’d better go,” he says, directing this to Lydia. He needs to call his father, call Melissa, call _anyone_ who might be able to fix his fuck-up.

It’s probably not as epic as it seems, he tells himself. Chris Argent and the HVF already knew or at least suspected that there were other PDSS in town somewhere. They had found Garrett Meyers. And Beacon Hills had spawned hundreds of rotters. There wouldn’t be any way for them to easily guess which six might have returned.

“That would be a good idea,” Lydia murmurs, getting to her feet.

Jackson grabs him by the arm. “You’re not going anywhere, Stilinski. Not until you tell me what rotters are living under our noses.”

“I’m not going to tell you anything,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Now let me go.”

“I think you will,” Jackson says. “I think you’re going to give me six names, if you want to leave this place with your head still attached.”

“Jackson, let him go,” Lydia says sharply.

“You don’t scare me,” Stiles says, lying through his teeth. “You wanna beat me up? It’ll be like seventh grade all over again, except I won’t feel anything, and you’ll be doing it in a room full of witnesses.”

There’s an ugly look in Jackson’s eyes, and suddenly he wrenches Stiles’ arm around, flips him over, and pins him to the floor on his stomach. Stiles lets out a grunt and tries to scramble back to his feet, but Jackson’s already on top of him, and he’s much stronger. “None of these witnesses are going to say anything,” Jackson says. “Except maybe my bleeding heart ex-girlfriend, and who’d believe her against everybody else? Now you tell me who those other rotters are – ”

“Fuck you,” Stiles snarls, trying again to heave himself up. He feels something sharp press into the back of his neck, and goes still.

“Yeah, you feel that?” Jackson asks. “That’s four inches of cold steel, Stilinski. I’ll put it right here.” He presses it harder into Stiles’ neck, just below his ear. “Sever your spinal cord and get it in your brainstem. That’s how you kill a rotter close up. We learned that fast.”

“Jackson!” Lydia protests, her voice sharp, a mix of anger and fear. “Get off him!” When Jackson still doesn’t move, she looks around the coffee shop. The other patrons glance at her but then studiously look away.

“Now you tell me,” Jackson says. “You tell me who these other rotters are. You do it right now.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says again, but he can’t keep up the bravado. He feels the first inch of the steel slide into his neck, and whimpers.

“Last chance, Stilinski,” Jackson says, and Stiles just squeezes his eyes shut.

“Whittemore, what the _fuck_ ,” a new voice says, and then suddenly, Jackson’s weight is lifted off Stiles. He rolls onto his back and scrambles backwards, feet kicking for purchase, as he sees Jackson stumble away, pulled off him by the newcomer. The voice is familiar, but he doesn’t quite recognize it. His gaze snaps across the room and he goes still. It’s Scott.

“Hey, McCall,” Jackson says, with a nod. “Stiles and I were just having a chat about how many rotters are living in Beacon Hills.”

Scott’s eyes go wide and he looks between the two of them. “Have you fucking _lost your mind_?” he demands. “That’s Sheriff Stilinski’s _son_ , you think you can put a knife in his brain in the middle of the God damned Java Hut?”

“What’s he gonna do, arrest me?” Jackson asks, laughing. “’Cause that’s worked out great for him so far.”

“No, numbnuts, he’ll put a fucking bullet in your skull,” Scott says, still incredulous. “Do you honestly think that if you killed Stiles, that _anyone_ could stop Sheriff Stilinski from wiping you off the face of the planet? Are you nuts, or just a fucking idiot?”

Jackson looks ready to start sulking. “He knows who the other rotters are.”

“So what?” Scott asks, exasperated. “He wouldn’t give you his lunch money in third grade, you think he’s gotten _easier_ to bully now that lives are on the line? Jesus Christ, Jackson. And don’t look at me like I killed your puppy. I just saved your life, you asshole.”

“Oh, yeah, I was in real – ” Jackson breaks off when Scott points. Both he and Stiles look over at Lydia, who’s holding a gun. “Jesus, Lydia.”

“It might not have killed you,” Lydia says. “It’s only a .22. I really only got it so I could wound a rotter enough to slow it down so somebody else could come capture it.” She lifts her chin and continues, “But I would’ve shot you, Jackson. You were about to murder my friend.”

“Whatever, bitch,” Jackson says. “I’m out of here.”

He starts to push past Scott. Scott grabs him by the elbow. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “You’re going to sit down until someone gets here to arrest your sorry ass.”

“No,” Stiles blurts out. Scott turns and looks at him. “God, don’t, please just . . . just let him go. Don’t put me through that. You know he – he’ll get all these others – he’ll say I started it. That I was rabid. They’ll believe him. Even if Lydia says I wasn’t. They’ll send me back to the institution and I – I promised my dad that I would stay with him. Or – or worse yet, he’ll weasel out of it, and, and, sooner or later my dad is going to lose his shit, if he finds out Jackson almost killed me and he can’t do anything about it legally, he might – please, guys, just – please. Don’t call him.”

Scott and Lydia exchange a look. Scott grimaces and releases Jackson, who pulls his arm back more forcefully than is necessary, and then storms out of the store.

“Come on,” Lydia says, putting her gun back in her purse. “I’ll drive you home. I’ll need to, uh – you kind of have a hole in the back of your neck now. Maybe I can cover it up.”

Stiles nods. He starts to push himself up, and then Scott extends a hand to him, and he accepts it. Scott pulls him to his feet. “Thanks,” Stiles says. “I mean, you know. For saving my life. Unlife. And for what you said. About how I wouldn’t have told him.”

“Well, you never were that bright,” Scott grumbles, then shakes his head. “I’ve gotta go,” he says, and pushes his way past them, towards the counter.

Stiles somehow makes it all the way out to the car before he has a complete freak-out. He winds up sitting in the passenger seat with his head between his knees. Lydia is trying to hide her fascination at the fact that a PDSS can have an actual panic attack. “I mean, I don’t want to say it’s all in your head, but panic attacks are usually caused by an adrenaline rush and hyper-oxygenation – ”

“You’re not helping,” Stiles moans.

“Right. Sorry.” She leans over and rubs his back until the worst of it passes. Then she puts the car in gear and drives out of the parking lot. “Look, are you really sure you don’t want to tell your dad? He’ll be beyond pissed if he finds out that you hid it from him.”

“I know that,” Stiles says. “But . . . I really am worried that if he finds out, and can’t get Jackson prosecuted fairly, he might really lose his shit. He might _kill_ Jackson, just to keep me safe. I don’t want him to do that for my sake. He’d . . . he could lose everything.”

Lydia sighs. “Like he’d be happier if he lost you?”

“No. But I don’t plan to let him lose me. I can just avoid Jackson from now on.” But he thinks of the death threats. It’s not Jackson’s voice on the phone, and it isn’t Chris Argent’s, either, so he has no idea who’s been leaving those messages.

“I guess I should’ve just shot him,” Lydia mutters.

Stiles opens one eye. “Yeah, seriously? You carry a gun?”

Lydia tosses her hair and says impatiently, “Of course I carry a gun. I’m a nineteen-year-old woman with a pretty face and a bum leg. Tasers actually work better on rabid PDSS. The gun is for personal protection.”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “Just, wow.”

Lydia’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I lost a friend once. I sometimes wonder what would have happened to her if she had been armed and able to protect herself. That’s not going to happen to me.”

“Well,” Stiles says, “maybe I should carry one, too.”

At this, Lydia looks over at him. “Legally, I don’t know if that would be possible. There are these laws being made now . . . like the fact that PDS dwellings have to be marked. Before long, they really will be making you wear yellow stars, I think. PDSS can’t get driver’s licenses or passports, and I’m fairly sure you wouldn’t be able to get a license for a firearm.”

“I guess that’s true,” Stiles says. “Jesus, this reintegration thing is such a mess. It’s like, nobody thought it through, and now every community is coming up with their own rules.”

Lydia nods. They’ve reached the Stilinski house, and she parks in his driveway. She’s quiet again, then says, “Look, I need to tell you something. You keep secrets from your dad, that’s no surprise. But he’s keeping one from you, too. I think he doesn’t want you to worry, but . . . you know he’s up for re-election in the fall, right?” she asks, and Stiles nods. “Well, Chris Argent is running against him.”

“Jesus.” Stiles feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. “Chris Argent as the sheriff. Now _that_ is a terrifying thought.”

“Yeah. And of course he’s being endorsed by Mike Whittemore, and by his father, who’s the county judge. Things . . . they don’t look so great for your dad, Stiles. And if he loses to Argent . . . things don’t look so great for Beacon Hills, either.”

“Except it’s not really about Tom Stilinski versus Chris Argent, is it,” Stiles says. “It’s about reintegration versus no reintegration.”

Lydia nods. “Yeah. That’s what everyone will be voting on.”

Stiles suddenly feels exhausted. “Whatever,” he says. “I just can’t . . . I can’t invest in this anymore, Lydia. I’ve tried, God, I’ve _tried_ , but I’m done. If my dad loses the election, we’ll just leave. We’ll find some isolated house somewhere in the wilds, install a cell tower so I can have wi-fi, and we’ll just . . . forget the whole damned thing. Try again in twenty years, maybe, see if things have changed.”

“Stiles, you can’t just give up,” Lydia says, reaching out and taking his hands. “That’s how they win. You have to keep fighting.”

“What’s your fucking stake in this, Lyds?” Stiles asks abruptly. “You’ve pushed me more than anyone else. More than my dad, more than the other PDSS who were waiting to see how my reintegration went before they decided whether or not to try it on their own. You just won’t stop, and I don’t fucking understand you. You say it’s about the science, but it _can’t_ just be about the science. Nobody is this fucking passionate about science.”

“I am,” Lydia says. “This is – this is my chance to prove myself. To prove that I’m more than some airheaded ditz with a pretty face. I want to be more than that, Stiles.”

“Then _you_ keep fighting,” Stiles says. He pulls away from her and gets out of the car. She scrambles to follow. “You keep trying to convince people you’re right. But leave me the fuck out of it. I can’t do this anymore.”

Lydia hastens to catch up with him as he walks up to the door. “What do you need?” she asks. “To want to keep fighting. What can I do to help?”

“Give me something worth fighting for,” Stiles says, choking down tears. “Give me a reason to put myself through this that _matters_.”

“Your father – ”

“Has already said that he doesn’t really give a shit if he wins the election or not. I know he’s made arrangements to leave town if he loses.”

Lydia lets out a breath. “Then what about me?”

“There are plenty of other PDSS you can use to prove your point,” Stiles says. “It doesn’t have to be me. Do you know why I’ve helped you, Lydia? Why I let you in? Because of that.” He points to her leg. “Because I was guilty about that. But if there’s one person you’ve managed to get through to in this godforsaken town, it’s me. That? Wasn’t my fault. So you have no right to make me pay for it.”

Lydia reaches out and takes his hand. “Then what about Scott?”

“Scott doesn’t even want to see me.”

“He saved your life today.”

“The way Jackson had me pinned, Scott couldn’t have even known it was me until after he got Jackson off me – ”

“No, he did,” Lydia says. “Stiles, he did. I called him. I knew . . . that Jackson might do something awful. That if I didn’t want to wind up shooting him in the coffee shop, I might need the backup. So I called Scott and told him that we’d be there. I told him that you might need him. And he showed up. He came to make sure you would be okay.”

Stiles has gone still. His jaw is slightly ajar, mouth making a little ‘o’ shape. “Why . . . you weren’t going to tell me that unless you had to. Why not?”

“Scott asked me not to. He said that things are still ‘weird’ between you two, and he doesn’t want . . . I don’t think he knows what he wants, to be honest.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. Then he lets it out. “Okay,” he finally says. He thinks about it for a minute. “No, fuck that. But that’s for me and Scott to work out.” He shakes his head. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah.” Lydia seems to sense that she’s pushed enough. “I’ll see you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, let's have some feels! <3

 

“Hey, big bro.” Cora drops a paper bag onto the floor as she comes into the farmhouse room that Derek has been using as his studio, and he catches her in an embrace. Then she nudges the bag with her foot. “Everything you asked for. Do you have any idea how expensive art supplies are?”

“Why do you think Dad worked so hard?” Derek asks. “It wasn’t so he could buy us nice things. It all went back into Mom’s oil paint.”

They both laugh a little, the sad kind of laugh that only results in remembering good things about people now gone. Cora walks past him and starts examining the series of sketches and watercolors on his wall. “You know,” she says, “I hate to use the word ‘obsessive’, but if the shoe fits . . .”

Derek pushes a hand through his hair. “Don’t start with me,” he says. “When you start painting a subject, you have to try a lot of times to get it right. It’s natural for me to have ten or twelve drawings or practice runs before I start putting things down with oils.” He looks over the series of artwork and says, “And I may be a little obsessed.”

“Just a little,” Cora says. “He’s cute. Friend of yours?”

“Yeah. Well, you know him, or at least know _of_ him. Stiles Stilinski, the sheriff’s kid.”

“Oh, right, you told me that you two were hanging out,” Cora says, with a nod of recognition. “I’ve actually seen him, at least once. He was at the video rental place with some redhead. They were arguing over whether or not he needed to see _The Notebook_.”

“Who won?” Derek asks, trying not to feel jealous.

“Uh, the HVF, when they called the cops and tried to have him thrown out,” Cora says, “and he decided he would rather go than kick up a fuss.”

Derek sighs. “Yeah, he’s told me that at least half of his trips go about that way. Not with the cops being called, but just with general unpleasantness.”

“Hey, considering the alternatives, fifty-fifty isn’t bad,” Cora says. She flops onto the old sofa and wrinkles her nose as some dust flies off of it. She picks up one of Derek’s sketchbooks and starts leafing through it. “At least nobody’s tried to shoot him. You know, yet. Did you hear about the sheriff’s election?”

“What about it?”

“Chris Argent’s running,” Cora says, and Derek nearly drops the box of paints he’s been setting up. “Yeah, that was about my reaction, too. He’s running on a platform of zero tolerance for reintegration. So that’s going to be interesting, to see how it plays out.”

“I guess that’s one way to put it,” Derek mutters. “But he can’t exactly say that. I mean, the sheriff doesn’t make the laws.”

“No. But Mike Whittemore is up for re-election, too, so they’re basically running together, along with a couple other legislators. They’re all talking about how they’re going to enact stricter laws about PDSS in the community, and so it’ll all end up being the same thing. With the sheriff who thinks he’s a cowboy, and a prosecutor who won’t prosecute people who harass or assault PDSS, what’s it matter what the laws say, anyway?”

Derek grimaces and wonders what Stiles thinks of all of this. He hasn’t mentioned it, but he might just want to have avoided upsetting the others at the group. They know that what he’s doing isn’t easy, but their support can only take him so far. So ‘reintegration’ will continue to mean ‘hiding’ for the foreseeable future. That’s easier for Derek to swallow than a lot of the others. He’s a hermit by nature anyway. He can find a way to sell his art. Drive to somewhere less problematic a couple times a month, set up a gallery. It’s not like he needs the money.

He’s still thinking about that when Peter walks in, nose half in a book. “Derek, have you heard about – oh. Hello, Cora.”

“Hi, Uncle Peter,” she says, not looking at him. They’ve agreed to be civil to each other – or really, Cora’s agreed to be civil to Peter, since he didn’t have a problem with her – for Derek’s sake. They aren’t friendly, but he’ll take it. To be fair to Peter, Cora’s attitude towards him sometimes bothers Derek. He knows that he can’t imagine what Cora went through. But at the same time, Peter had lost his wife, his _children_ – so he doesn’t really think Cora has any right to judge him on how he had coped with their loss. Or not coped with it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your visit,” Peter says.

Cora waves him off. “Whatever. Have we heard about what?”

“There’s going to be an anti-PDS rally in town,” Peter says. “A vigil for the people who were killed during the Rising, et cetera.”

“Great,” Derek says. “I’ll stay home that night. Oh, wait – I stay home every night.”

Peter rolls his eyes, and it looks like he might say something pithy and obnoxious, but then he gets distracted by the picture Cora is looking at. “Who is that?” he asks.

“Hm?” Derek looks up and then walks over to glance down at the sketch he had done with colored pencils. “Oh. A woman I was seeing before the fire. Why?”

“She looks familiar,” Peter says. “May I?” he adds, and takes the sketchbook from Cora’s hands. He studies it for a long minute, then shakes his head. “I don’t know where I’ve seen her before.”

“Was she someone you met during the Rising, maybe?” Derek asks, feeling dubious about this. He knows that one of the reasons Peter is so much more well-adjusted about everything that happened during the Rising is because he has virtually no memory of any of it. Derek’s memories are better than most, and Peter’s are worse. He recalls his uncle saying that at first they didn’t even think he was going to respond to the neurotriptyline.

“Perhaps,” Peter says, still frowning. “Can I keep this?”

“Sure,” Derek says. He doesn’t really care. Kate is a long-ago memory to him now. They had gone on several dates before the fire, had one of those whirlwind romances that people write about in books. Then he had died and the Rising had happened and nothing had been the same. Even if he could find her now, even if she was still alive, she probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him.

Besides, he has Stiles to think about now. It’s interesting, because he would have sworn he was in love with Kate. He had had bad luck with romance – a _lot_ of bad luck – and he had thought Kate was the one. The way he feels about Stiles is entirely different, but it still seems like love. Everything about Kate had been wild and unpredictable. Whatever it is he’s building with Stiles is steady and reassuring. It isn’t less; it’s just different.

“Earth to Derek?” Cora is saying impatiently, and Derek shakes himself, realizing that Peter has departed with the sketch and he’s just standing, staring out into space. “Flashback?” Cora asks.

“Yeah, sort of. Just thinking about – things before the fire.” Derek shakes his head. “It’s not important.”

Cora nods a little. “You ever wonder . . . how things would have been different? I mean, if there hadn’t been the fire, and then we . . . we all would have fought the rabids together, you know?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, thinking of their house out on the preserve. It could have been easily fortified. It would have been a good place to fight from. Things would have been different, that’s for sure. But things can’t be changed. This is what they have to live with now. He shakes off the gloomy thoughts. “Come on,” he says, “I’ll show you what I’ve been working on.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Kira and Scott both look up from the movie they’ve been watching when the doorbell rings. A bare moment later, there’s a solid knock, hurried and loud. Scott’s already got his hand on his gun, and he gestures for Kira to stay behind him as he moves forward. Kira thinks this is largely unnecessary, but she knows they’ve both got their residual issues, and she doesn’t argue.

Scott looks through the front window and everything about him goes still.

“What, who is it?” Kira asks.

“It’s Stiles,” Scott says.

Kira thinks about this as the knock sounds again. “Well, open the door.”

She thinks that Scott’s going to argue with her, but he doesn’t. He puts the safety on his gun, sets it on the table beside the door, and then unlocks and opens it. “What do you want?” he asks.

“To talk to you,” Stiles says, with a grimly determined look on his face, apparently not at all put off by Scott’s greeting. “Preferably not on the front porch.”

Scott hesitates, and Kira rests a hand on his shoulder, silently supporting whatever decision he makes. After what seems like a glacial epoch, he stands back to let Stiles in. “Okay,” he says, spine tense. “Say what you’ve got to say.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, which surprises both of them. “God, Scott, I’m so sorry, for _everything_. I just can’t – I can’t keep going like this. I have to _fix_ it, and I don’t know how, but you’re my _brother_ and I can’t deal with you pretending I don’t exist. Everyone said to give you time so I did, but ignoring this problem isn’t making it go away and I don’t know what to do, what to say, to make things okay between us.”

Since Scott isn’t shoving him out the door, Stiles takes a deep breath and plunges onwards. “I know I was an idiot that night, okay, God, I _know_ that, but thinking ahead has never really been my forte anyway and you just – I felt like I had to do something, I couldn’t just – and so I’m sorry, really, I know that things have been hard for you, I get that, but I – ”

“No, you don’t get that,” Scott interrupts, shoving Stiles backwards. “How could you possible _get_ that? You were _dead_ , you asshole, do you have any idea what that was like for me? As long as I could remember, you’d been there, and then you were just suddenly gone and it was _my fault_. Because I had shitty lungs, you got your throat clawed open – ”

“Dude, your shitty lungs are not your fault, they’re God’s fault, and since I’m the one who suggested we go check out what was going on in the forest I’m pretty sure it was _my_ fault – ”

“Shut up!” Scott yells. “You don’t know, you don’t know anything! You were gone and I had to live with that and you can’t, can’t _possibly_ imagine what that was like. I was fucking _devastated_ , okay, and the worst part was that everyone was like ‘he died so you could live, he wouldn’t want you to be like this’ like I could suddenly just flip a switch and be okay living without you. I wasn’t okay! All I wanted was for people to let me be not okay, and I couldn’t even have that because you had to die like some fucking hero!”

“Okay, if other people were assholes, that sucks, but I don’t see how that’s my fault either – ”

“It was your fault! Everything was your fault! I needed you!” Scott grabs him by the front of the shirt and shakes him, hard. “You bastard, I needed you and you left me! It was the fucking zombie apocalypse! Do you have any idea how many times I thought to myself ‘God, if only Stiles were here, I would be strong enough to do this’? But you weren’t! You left me!”

“Hit me,” Stiles says.

This takes Scott somewhat aback. “What?”

“Hit me,” Stiles repeats, and taps his own cheek. “Right here. That was the deal we made, remember? That we would be friends forever, but we’d probably screw up, so when one of us screwed up, one punch and then we’d be friends again.”

“We were five years old – ”

“Hit me, Scott, I deserve it, just punch me, really hard, as hard as you – ”

Scott punches him right across the jaw, and Stiles staggers backwards and nearly falls. Scott just stands there, shoulders heaving, as he fights to catch his breath.

“Okay, hit me again,” Stiles says. “Hit me once for every time you thought to yourself ‘if only Stiles were here’.”

Scott reaches out and grabs Stiles, pulling him close. Stiles makes a startled little noise, but then hugs him back, hands twisting in the back of Scott’s shirt, as the other teenager starts to sob.

“I’m so sorry, Scott,” he whispers. “God, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

They wind up just sitting on the floor of the front hallway while Scott cries himself out into Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles just holds onto him as hard as he can. “When they came – ” Scott chokes out. “Nobody knew where they were coming from. We didn’t know what the _fuck_ was going on, if it was some sort of infectious disease or if they were actual dead people or, or what was going on, but then I – I saw somebody I knew, somebody I knew was dead, who had died about a month before you and I thought – I thought no, it couldn’t be, and I ran – I ran all the way out to the graveyard where you were buried. I thought, if you – if I could just get to you in time, maybe – maybe you wouldn’t be like that, maybe we could do something, but – but your grave was all dug up and you were gone and I, it was like you had died all over again, only it was so much worse somehow. Like every scab I’d managed to form over the wounds was just ripped right off.

“I lost you all over again and then – when they said there was a cure, when they _found_ you, I couldn’t – I just fucking _couldn’t_ , I couldn’t go through that again, I couldn’t. So I, I just convinced myself it wasn’t really you, that you were dead, always dead, that you’d never be back and I just had to accept that and move on. It was all I had. It was all that kept me sane.”

“It’s me, Scotty,” Stiles says. “It’s me and I’m here and I – I’ve got you, I’m never leaving you again, not _ever_ , okay? I’ve got you.”

Scott nods and sobs harder into Stiles’ shirt. After a few more minutes, he takes in a shuddering breath and wipes his eyes, pulling away a little. Kira walks over and silently hands him a box of tissues and a glass of water. He blows his nose and then hands the box to Stiles. He’s been crying as well, so much so that for once the makeup has actually started to run.

“Those contacts are the wrong color,” Scott finally says.

“Dude, I’m aware,” Stiles says. “Blue or brown. Those were the choices. Normally I don’t even bother with all this stuff, but I thought – I didn’t want to upset you any more than I was going to by showing up here.”

“I’m glad you did,” Scott admits. “I feel better.”

“Me too,” Stiles says. He rubs a hand over his jaw and then grimaces. “Man, you really took a level in badass while I was gone, huh?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. He hesitates, then asks, “D’you want to hear about it?”

“Totally,” Stiles says.

They both manage to stagger to their feet. Scott looks at Kira and then says, “Oh, I didn’t – Stiles, this is Kira. My girlfriend. Kira, Stiles.”

“You have a girlfriend?” Stiles is suddenly one hundred percent excited teenager. “Awesome! Have you been to second? Tell me you’ve been to second, I want to know what it’s like – ”

Scott flushes and says, “Uh, let’s talk about that later,” with a nervous glance at Kira, who’s trying not to laugh. He rubs a hand over his hair and they head into the living room. “So . . . yeah. The HVF. I mean. I’m not sure where to start.”

“Well, how’d you join up? Did they recruit people?” Stiles asks. “I don’t actually know much about how that whole thing got started. They _so_ didn’t talk about that at the facility. I mean, I think they didn’t want to freak us out.”

“Sort of. See . . . my mom and I, along with a few other families, wound up living at the Wal-Mart Supercenter.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. “No. Way. You _actually_ used our zombie apocalypse plan?”

“Well, what was the point in making one up if we didn’t use it?” Scott asks, and he almost smiles. “And it worked just as well as we thought it was. That place had food, weapons, first aid stuff, gasoline – pretty much everything that anyone might need. And yeah, we had some trouble with looters, just like we predicted, but we actually were able to fortify it pretty well, right? And since we had the idea first, everyone had to suck it. Not that we hoarded everything for ourselves, we actually gave a lot of it out. Anyway, it was me and Mom, Kira’s family – ” He pauses to squeeze her hand – “Vernon Boyd and his family, a couple friends of my mom’s from work and their families. There were about forty of us all told.

“We actually had it pretty good, all things considered. I mean, we always had enough to eat, and there were microwaves in the break room, so we could heat food up. We used some of the gardening stuff to rig up showers. Obviously the perishables went pretty fast, and we didn’t get new shipments, but there was probably enough Cup-Noodles there to last several lifetimes.

“Anyway, Chris Argent had been getting most of the weaponry and ammo he needed to run the local HVF from his army buddies, right? But eventually even they started to run low, and they cut him off, because they ‘needed it more’, to suppress the uprising in the cities and try to keep it from spreading outside the west. Since at that point we had no idea how it was happening. So he started looking around for more ammo and at one point it must have occurred to him that the Wal-Mart sold bullets and stuff, so he came to see what we had.

“He didn’t expect anyone to be there, obviously, and he actually wound up pretty impressed by the setup we had going. He wanted to know whose idea it had been, and Mom told him it had been mine. We gave him as much ammo as we felt we could spare. He wasn’t mad about it or anything, I mean, he basically thought if we were there taking care of ourselves, he didn’t have to try to keep us safe. But before he left, he said if it ever fell apart and we couldn’t stay there any longer, to come find him at the tavern.”

Scott goes quiet for a minute. Stiles gives him some time, then gently prompts, “So what happened?”

“We finally lost the power,” Scott says, and shrugs. “We knew it would happen eventually. A lot of places were going dark. A bunch of the families chose to stay anyway, because they could still live off cereal and peanut butter, but those of us that felt we could decided to venture out, so they could have more supplies. I mean, without the power, we lost a lot of our fortifications, because we’d set up some electrified stuff, and we lost the hot water . . . anyway. Me and my mom, Kira and her parents, and Boyd and his dad and younger brother, we all tripped out and joined the HVF.”

“Your mom was in the HVF?” Stiles asks, surprised.

“Yeah, as a medic,” Scott says, with a nod. He’s smiling slightly and turns to Kira. “Do you – d’you remember the night we left?” he asks, and she starts giggling. Stiles gives them a questioning look. “When we lost the power, we just – everything in the freezers that we’d been trying to ration, we just – we went nuts. We literally ate ourselves sick on ice cream. We had, like, a going-away ice cream social. It was actually a lot of fun.”

“That’s awesome,” Stiles says.

“So we joined up with Chris, and he kind of gave us some basic training, which was really hell, but I’d stolen a bunch of asthma medication from the Wal-Mart, so uh, I was okay. And Kira’s a natural badass with a katana – ”

“Nooooo,” Kira protests, laughing.

“So we were able to really kick ass and we killed a – ” Scott stops abruptly.

Stiles blinks at him, then says, “Dude, it’s okay. I know you two probably killed a fuckton of rotters, right? It’s cool. I would’ve been right there with you, if I’d been around.”

Scott lets out a breath. “Okay. Some people are – weird about it, still.”

“Well, it’s the zombie apocalypse,” Stiles says. “I think we would expect it to get a little weird.”

“True,” Scott says, and laughs again. He starts telling stories about different missions and patrols, and Stiles listens eagerly, soaking it up.

They’re both startled when Stiles’ phone rings. “Oh, it’s my dad,” he says, glancing at it. “Shit, I hadn’t realized how late it was getting.” He taps the screen. “Hey, Dad.”

“Where are you?” his father asks.

“I’m, uh, I’m at Scott’s, actually.”

There’s a pause. “How’s that . . . going?”

“Really good,” Stiles says. “If you’re off work, why don’t you come over? We can have dinner together. And be ‘we’ I mean ‘the people who eat’. I can be the centerpiece.”

Tom chokes out a laugh. “Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Stiles hangs up, and Scott says, “I guess I’ll text my mom. Kira, do you think your dad would want to come over?”

“I’m sure he’d love to,” Kira says.

“I can cook dinner,” Stiles says. “You know, even though I can’t eat it. I still know how to cook.”

“Oh!” Scott brightens. “You should make, uh, chicky-chicky – ”

“Parm-parm!” they finish together, and both start laughing. Kira looks between the two of them, puzzled, but she’s laughing too. “Sorry,” Scott says to her. “Old in-joke.”

“You don’t have to apologize for having in-jokes,” Kira says. “It’s cute.”

“I don’t think we have any real food in the house, though,” Scott says. “I mean, we mainly eat take-out and sandwiches. You know that my mom has never really been big on cooking, and especially after the Rising, when we were both in the HVF and she was picking up extra shifts at the hospital – I mean, everything was pretty crazy back then.”

“Well, we could go to the grocery,” Stiles says.

Scott pauses in his texting. “Are you sure? Do you want to?”

“Yeah, I’d be okay,” Stiles says. “I mean . . . you’d protect me, right?”

“Damn straight,” Scott says, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Your makeup’s a mess, though. You might as well just take it off.”

“You think that’s okay?” Stiles says.

Scott shrugs. “Everyone knows who you are.”

“True. Okay, I’ll go wash up.” Stiles heads into the bathroom. He doesn’t have the special gel with him, so it takes some scrubbing to get his face cleaned off. He puts the contacts in their little case and tucks it away. Then he texts his father to let him know he’s going to the store, just in case someone calls him, and the three of them head out.

He feels much safer now than he has on any of the previous trips. Scott’s hovering a little, but it’s clearly because he wants to make sure Stiles is safe. Stiles grabs what he needs and ignores the clerk who comes over to pick out his produce for him because he doesn’t want someone with PDS touching the fresh vegetables.

Sure, he gets some funny looks, and some people muttering underneath their breath when he passes by. He hears a few people call him a ‘thing’ and one person says ‘how dare he go around like that’, but he ignores them. Scott is his brother again. He officially gives zero fucks about what anybody else thinks. He has Scott, he has his family. He’ll be okay.

Melissa buys a bottle of wine on the way home, and Kira’s father arrives with some books for Stiles because Kira told him that Stiles likes to read and likes history. Nobody bats an eyelash at the fact that Stiles isn’t wearing makeup or that the food was made by someone who was partially deceased. Melissa hugs Scott for several minutes and tells him that she’s proud of him.

Kira is still talking about going to San Francisco, not for her fall semester but maybe for the one after that. Scott says, “I was going to go with her, but maybe . . . maybe I’ll stay here instead.”

“Maybe we should go, too,” Stiles says, looking between his father and Scott.

“Don’t give up on this city yet, Stiles,” Melissa says. “There are a lot of good people here.”

“I guess we’ll see how many, come November,” Stiles says, and his father sighs and nods.

At the end of the evening, when Tom is getting ready to go home and Stiles is packing leftovers up into two separate containers, Scott walks over and says, “Hey. Remember how we were supposed to conquer that rope swing at Pike’s Quarry? But then you died, like an asshole?”

Stiles can’t help but smile a little. “Yeah. Is it still there?”

“Yep. Two o’clock tomorrow. I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay,” Stiles says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may or may not need a tissue alert. Nothing terrible happens in it, just a lot of thinking and talking about previous terrible-ness.

 

It’s about a forty minute drive to the old quarry with the rope swing that Stiles and Scott had been too chicken to try when they were kids. Stiles doesn’t really want to talk about heavy shit while they’re driving. He knows that there’s some stuff that they really _need_ to talk about, that there are a whole herd of elephants in the room with them, but he thinks they should let off some steam first.

So he immediately starts the car ride off with, “So, no Black Widow movie yet?”

“Dude, I _know_ ,” Scott bursts out, and they wind up talking the entire drive about the Marvel cinematic universe and all the movies that Stiles has had to catch up on, and can they believe that they left out the Wasp, and how hilarious it is that they still can’t have the X-Men and the Avengers in the same movie together.

They climb up to the top of the quarry together and both look skeptically over the edge at the pool of water below. “This was stupid, right?” Stiles asks, and Scott laughs and agrees that yeah, it was pretty stupid.

“Can you drown?” he asks curiously.

“I’d rather not find out,” Stiles says.

They both stare over the edge for a few minutes.

“Let’s just go for a swim,” Scott finally decides.

“Okay, but we’re still going to tell everyone we did it.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Scott agrees.

Stiles swims in his T-shirt and swim trunks, because he doesn’t want Scott seeing the scars on his stomach and chest. The ones on his throat are bad enough. He thinks that Scott might object, but he doesn’t. It’s not really warm enough to swim yet. Stiles doesn’t notice, but Scott winds up shivering, wrapping himself in an extra layer of towels after he gets out.

“So . . . do you still work at the animal clinic?” Stiles finally asks.

Scott shakes his head. “I haven’t in a while. I tried to go back to it, once things got calmed down some, but . . .” His jaw tightens a little. “I . . . I had a lot of trouble with it. I react badly when I get startled. Sometimes I have flashbacks, or just freeze up. It’s getting better, but . . .”

“I have flashbacks, too,” Stiles says. He figures that might help. “It’s pretty common, actually.”

“Yeah. Mom says it’s part of PTSD.” Scott tosses a rock into the water. “I guess I have a lot of symptoms of that. Hypervigilance, she says. And that whole thing where you just feel . . . emotionally disconnected all the time.” He shrugs a little. “I don’t know why it’s worse for me than it is for so many other people. Like Kira. She just . . . it’s like she just flipped this switch and went back to being a normal teenager.”

“Yeah, Kira,” Stiles says, glad to talk about something a little less depressing. “She seems really nice. And fun.”

“She is.”

“So do you, like, _like_ her?” Stiles asks.

Scott punches him in the arm. “What is this, fourth grade?” he asks, his cheeks coloring slightly. “Yeah, I like her. I don’t think I’m emotionally prepared to say anything besides that.”

“Well, how’d you two become a thing?” Stiles asks. “We didn’t know her before.”

“Yeah, she and her parents had actually just moved to Beacon Hills about two weeks before the first PDSS appeared,” Scott says. “We had met in history class, I mean, not that I was really talking to anyone, but somehow her family wound up at the Wal-Mart with us and the others, and then they left with us to join the HVF. We did training together, and Chris noticed that we worked well together, so he put us on patrols together a lot of the time. Which was cool, I mean, she was nice, but . . .”

Scott’s voice trails off, and he hunches up a little. “What happened?” Stiles asks.

“Her mom got killed,” Scott says. “They were out on a patrol and ran into this gang of rotters, and her mom told her to run. Held them off so she could get away.”

Stiles immediately sees the parallels, and winces. “Oh. Oh, man.”

“Yeah. I mean, she was really upset, obviously, and people were saying the same things to her that they had said to me, after you died. You know, ‘she sacrificed herself so you could live, you need to be strong for her’. She was just getting more and more upset, and I stepped in and told everyone to leave her alone, that dying for someone else was stupid and selfish.” He gives Stiles a sideways glance, and seems relieved when Stiles just nods in agreement. He’s not sure that Scott is right, per se, but he knows that Scott is entitled to his feelings about it. “So we started talking about it. You know, a little. And then we started . . . you know.” He’s blushing again.

“I can’t believe that you’re actually getting laid, that is so cool,” Stiles says.

“At first it was one of those totally cliché, ‘we just survived something that should have killed us, let’s make out’ kind of things,” Scott says. “But I don’t know. It’s sort of developed into something real. I like her a lot, and I just . . . I just don’t want to rush into things and fuck it up.”

“That totally makes sense to me,” Stiles says. He picks up another rock and skips it across the surface of the quarry. A few minutes pass in silence.

“What’s it like?” Scott finally asks, staring out over the lake. “Being. You know.” He swallows hard. “A zombie.”

Stiles lets out a breath. He has to think about it for what seems like a long time, tries to figure out if there’s any words that can really describe it. “It’s . . . scary,” he finally says. “It’s really scary. There’s so many questions that I don’t have answers to. Like . . . what’s going to happen to me? We don’t age, but . . . do we decay? I mean, will this body start to rot again? Or am I just going to . . . keep going forever?” He shakes his head a little. “You’re going to get old and marry someone and have kids and I’m going to be sixteen forever. I don’t know how to feel about that. Sometimes I get angry, sometimes I’m even happy about it, but most of the time I’m just scared.

“There’s so many things that I can’t feel now, and that scares me, too. Like, I don’t really feel pain. I was cooking the other day and I dropped a cookie sheet and just instinctively grabbed it on the way down.” He holds his hand out so Scott can see the burn mark. “I didn’t even know I had hurt myself until my dad noticed it later. I don’t feel temperature, like, I don’t get cold or anything like that. I don’t even really feel people touching me. Like . . . can I?” he asked, holding out a hand.

Scott nods, so Stiles puts a hand on Scott’s wrist and squeezes. “That, I could feel, like that sort of pressure. But if someone just does this . . .” he lets go, just letting his hand rest against Scott’s skin. “I can’t feel that. My dad does that a lot nowadays, just touches me on his way by, like he wants to make sure I’m still there, and I don’t realize he’s doing it.

“Some of this stuff sucks, it like, it sucks _so_ hard. Like I can’t eat or drink anything. I can’t enjoy a hot shower. I mean, I could _take_ one, but I couldn’t feel it. I’m going to be a virgin forever. Even if I could physically have sex, I don’t see what the point would be, I wouldn’t feel any of it.

“But you’re right, though. I mean, even with all that, even with . . . how I wake up every morning and have to give myself a ten minute pep talk to get out of bed and get on with my day . . . I wouldn’t trade it. I wouldn’t rather be dead. Because of my dad. And you. My friends. I’m glad to be here.”

Scott fiddles a little. “I know that everyone’s asking all the PDSS this, but . . . what was it like? Being dead?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says. “I don’t remember. I don’t think anybody does.”

“That’s scary, huh?” Scott says. “Like . . . all we are is in our brains. And when they stop, so do we.”

“Yeah, but apparently they can be restarted,” Stiles says. “That’s why you’re seeing this huge surge in cryogenics research now.” He shrugs a little. “Personally, I say, if I die again, put my brain in a robot body. That’s the way I’m going to go.”

“Dude, that’s an awesome idea,” Scott says. “We should totally become robots together.”

Stiles laughs despite himself. “But it’s like . . . I feel like there was a gap, you know? Like sometimes when you fall asleep, you wake up feeling like no time has passed. This wasn’t like that. So maybe I was somewhere. I dunno.”

“That’s what all the religious folks say, yeah,” Scott says. “That you were obviously in some sort of afterlife, but the human brain isn’t capable of comprehending it, so it’s like you forgot.”

“I kind of agree with them, actually,” Stiles says. “In that we aren’t supposed to remember. Because . . . I don’t know what would happen if we did. Or what it would do to us. It’s like, we’re all wondering why we’re here, you know? Why did we come back? This guy I know says he feels like it must be for a reason, but I don’t know. I haven’t found one yet.”

Scott’s quiet for a few moments, then says, “I know why you’re back.”

Stiles looks over at him. “You do?”

Scott nods. “For your dad,” he says. He looks out over the lake. “Look, Stiles, you don’t . . . you can say you know it was hard for your dad, but you can’t get it. I mean, talk about things that you can’t _comprehend_ . . .” He fiddles with a piece of grass. “So the night you died . . . once I caught my breath, I got up and started looking for you, but I couldn’t find you. You’d run, like, really far. So I just went back to where there was cell service and I called your dad. He came out with, with the dogs and the deputies and everything, and we were all wandering around, shouting your name, trying to find you. I was . . . God, I was so fucked up, because it was like I _knew_ you were dead, or at least hurt bad, but I couldn’t believe it yet. I told myself we were going to search for hours and then find you on your sofa eating Cheetoh’s, wondering why we were so mad at you.

“Then I heard . . . I heard screaming. I didn’t know who it was, but it was just . . . your dad had found your body. And he was just holding you, screaming ‘no, God, no’, over and over again. I couldn’t . . . he wouldn’t let anybody get close. I mean, you looked . . . you looked pretty fucking dead, you know, but one of the deputies was trying to get in and check your pulse or something and your dad just wouldn’t . . .

“He sat out there in the forest for hours, holding your body, until my mom finally showed up and she managed to get him to let go. She took me home and I just . . . I didn’t believe it. And if you think that was bad, God, your funeral was even _worse_. They had it graveside, you know, to keep it as short and painless as possible. And I thought your dad would be okay, he was upright at least, and he was until the very end, until they actually started lowering the coffin into the ground. Then he just fucking _lost_ it. He was shouting at you to stop fooling around, to get up, to stop being dead because you weren’t, weren’t allowed to be dead, he kept saying ‘you’re scaring me, son, you’re scaring me, you have to get back up’.” Scott’s crying now, continuously wiping his eyes. “God, Stiles, you just _can’t_ know what it was like for him. He just . . . he stopped caring about everything after that. He was always drunk. He hardly ever went to work. Everyone just tried to give him time, but you, you were the world to him.

“Finally, when the Rising happened, remember how I told you that I ran out to your grave? He was there. When I got there. Just sitting on the ground. He said he had been there every night for weeks, just, hoping you would come back there. He said he knew you didn’t have a reason to, but it was the only thing he could do. That he just wanted to see you one more time.”

Scott’s quiet for another long minute, while Stiles tries to control his crying.

“We started hearing rumors of a cure, but nobody believed it, not at first,” Scott finally says. “It was the fucking zombie apocalypse, you can’t cure that. But then _official_ word came. We were all down at the tavern and this military guy showed up, and he had called your father since he was still the sheriff, so he was there too. And he said that from now on, we were to make every reasonable effort to capture rotters, not kill them, so they could be transported to one of the facilities.

“Chris, you know, he was _pissed_ , and I don’t really blame him, because that guy treated him like dirt. He was just like ‘I spent all my money on bullets and guns, now where the fuck am I supposed to get a bunch of tasers and nets from’ and the guy was basically like ‘that’s not our problem’. So as soon as he was gone, Chris said ‘forget this shit, we’ve still got people to protect, if the military wants to send in troops to round up the rotters and do their mad science shit on them, that’s their business, but you guys keep doing what you’re doing’.

“We’d all fucking forgotten your dad was _there_ by that point, I mean, he was just sitting in the corner with a bottle of whiskey, not saying anything, and he went _ballistic_ when Chris said that. He said that if anyone hurt you, if you got killed instead of captured, he’d kill every single one of us and burn Beacon Hills to the fucking _ground_. And he meant it, dude. Your dad was fucking _nuts_ by that point. He and Chris got in this big fight about it, because Chris said your dad had no right to tell him what to do after he abandoned Beacon Hills, that he knew what it was like to lose a child and if he kept going after that, your dad had no excuse not to. And I mean, it was different for Chris because his daughter was never found, but . . . anyway, your dad said that he didn’t give a good God damn what Chris or anyone else thought of him, that he would do whatever it took to keep you safe, and then a couple guys broke up the fight and your dad stormed off. Then when we found you, about six months later, he went into rehab and he cleaned right the fuck up. But you can still see it in him, you know? That he’s so afraid he’ll lose you again.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says quietly. He snuffles a little and wipes his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

“So, you know . . . I think you’re all going to have to find your own reasons, solve the ‘why am I here’ question on your own, but . . . I think that’s why you’re back. Because your dad couldn’t live without you. And because . . . maybe I couldn’t either. I mean. I was still getting up every morning, but it wasn’t the same. I didn’t want to live in a world without you, man.”

Stiles swallows hard. “Okay,” he says.

“Do you remember . . .” Scott’s voice trails off. “I guess you wouldn’t. I mean, they say you guys don’t have many memories of what happened during the Rising.”

“I don’t, but, there are some things I remember,” Stiles says. He chews on his lower lip. “I’m glad you didn’t shoot me.”

Scott looks over, a little startled, and then looks away. “So you do remember.”

“I only remember seeing you. Seeing you pointing your gun at me. I don’t remember anything else that happened that day.” Stiles wraps a towel around himself, wishing he could feel the cold. “I killed somebody, didn’t I.”

“ _You_ didn’t,” Scott says, as fiercely protective as he had ever been. “That . . . that thing that looked like you . . . it did.” He rubbed his hands over his arms. “And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. Not on you. Even knowing that you, you probably would have rather I did, that you never would have wanted . . . I didn’t want to live in a world that didn’t have you in it.”

“If it helps at all,” Stiles says, “I wouldn’t have been able to, either.”

Scott huffs out a sigh. “I guess that does help a little.”

Stiles gives him a minute, then punches him in the arm. “Hey. You wanna go back to your place, so you can kick my ass at Call of Duty?”

“Yeah I do,” Scott says, springing to his feet.

He winds up spending the night at Scott’s. He just doesn’t want to leave after dinner. They settle in to marathon the Star Wars movies. “I thought I’d never watch these,” Scott says, holding up the DVDs. “I mean, you were always on me to watch them, so once you were dead I thought . . . I just couldn’t. So now we have to, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Stiles says. They make popcorn. He can’t eat it, so he entertains himself trying to toss it into Scott’s mouth.

His father is working late, but he knows where Stiles is, and that he’s probably safer with Scott than anywhere else in Beacon Hills. When his shift is over, he comes by to pick Stiles up, but sees right away that Stiles doesn’t want to leave. “Well. I guess I’ll . . .”

“You should stay, too,” Stiles says firmly. He doesn’t want his father to be alone any longer than he has to be. “Mrs. McCall won’t mind.”

Melissa smiles at the two of them. “Of course, that’s fine,” she says.

“You like Star Wars, right?” Stiles asks his dad. “Of course you like Star Wars. Sit down.”

Somewhat bemused, Tom allows the others to shepherd him onto the sofa. Remembering everything that Scott had told him earlier that day, Stiles has no qualms about crawling into his father’s lap as if he’s five years old again. He curls up with his head resting against his father’s shoulder. Tom’s arms come up around him, squeezing him tightly, and he holds onto Stiles for a long time.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So your initial numbers are good,” Kate says, shuffling through a pile of papers that Chris has set aside because he wants nothing to do with it. “You’re polling at forty-seven percent, which is really pretty fantastic since you literally just entered the race. And you’re running against an incumbent, which makes things more difficult.”

“Uh huh,” Chris says, not looking up from where he’s reassembling his Glock.

“Campaign donations are, eh, so-so. To be fair, nobody’s got a lot of money right now, so it’s probably not too surprising.”

“Mm,” Chris agrees.

Kate sets down the papers. “Chris. For God’s sake. Try to show a little interest in what I’m talking about.”

“Why?” Chris asks. “You said ‘go sign up to run for sheriff, leave everything else to me’. Nowhere in there did I agree to be enthusiastic about this.”

Kate rolls her eyes so hard it’s practically a full body motion. “Well, it’s going to be hard for you to convince people to vote for you when you clearly don’t give a shit about whether or not you win.”

Chris sighs and picks up a rag to clean the gun oil off his hands. The thing is, he _doesn’t_ really give a shit about whether or not he wins. And he can’t hide that. He’s never been good at feigning enthusiasm about things he didn’t care about. “This isn’t my fucking problem, Kate. If the citizens of Beacon Hills want to let rotters back into their town, fine. They just better not come crying to me when things go bad.”

For a long minute, Kate watches her brother, considering him as he finishes reassembling his gun, cleans up, gets a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “So you’re pissed, I get it,” she says. “You just need to – ”

“No, Kate, you don’t get it,” Chris bites out. “I gave _everything_ to this fucking town. I gave up my house, my money, my _life_. I lost my wife, I gave up the search for my fucking _daughter_ so I could step in and protect these people. If they want to throw that away, I can’t stop them, and I don’t care, because if I start caring, I’ll – ” He bites down hard on the words.

“You only gave up searching for Allison because you couldn’t _get_ anywhere while the rotters were everywhere,” Kate says, but her voice is gentler. “Hey. Come on. Sit down.”

Chris lets her push him into a chair and rubs a hand over his face. How can he explain to Kate what’s going through his mind? There aren’t words for the sort of pain, the sort of loss, that he’s experienced. He can’t make her understand. Allison had been the light of his life. She had gone missing walking home from the ice rink after meeting some friends. They had found her purse later, and it looked like someone had thrown it out of a car. Foul play had been almost definite.

He had worked with the police – and Tom Stilinski had been a good sheriff in those days, a great detective – but nothing had been found. He had networked and used his military contacts. They had brought in dogs and knocked on doors. He had devoted his entire life to it.

Chris was a pragmatist at heart; he always had been. He knows that there’s very little chance his daughter is alive. He knows that missing teenagers, especially girls, who aren’t found within the first forty-eight hours are almost certainly dead. He knows that he’s looking for a body.

But there are always the rare exceptions, always the one girl who’s found after years or decades of captivity. So he never gave up. Even if all he found was a body, he’s determined that he won’t go to his grave without knowing what happened to his daughter.

Then the Rising had happened, and everything had gone to hell. Allison’s disappearance had become an instant low priority. Not for _him_ , per se, but for everyone else. How was he supposed to look for his daughter when people couldn’t even leave their houses at night? So he had thrown himself into the HVF, into putting things back to rights. He figured that the sooner they got the zombie apocalypse over with, the sooner he could go back to looking for Allison.

But that had been three years ago. They’re no longer being attacked every night, but for some reason he’s still involved, still responsible for all of these people, and now the people he’s spent the last three years protecting don’t seem to want to listen to him anymore. What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

He can’t help but have a dull, anguished feeling in his stomach that maybe, _maybe_ , he’s wrong about the rotters. The Stilinski kid has been back in town for months now. He’s been out and about and behaving like, well, a normal person. A traumatized, exceptionally _nervous_ person, but still, a person.

But he won’t, he _can’t_ accept that, because every time he thinks of something like that, he thinks of Victoria, clutching the bite mark on her upper arm. He thinks of his gun under Victoria’s chin, the bright shine of tears in her eyes as she said, “Please, Chris, _please_ , before I become one of them – ”

A knock on the door jolts him out of his reverie, and he realizes that Kate’s been talking for several minutes and he had tuned her out completely. She gives him an exasperated look as he pushes back from the table and goes to answer it. It’s Jackson Whittemore, looking as sullen and angry as ever. “Hey, Jackson,” he says, standing back to let the teenager in. “What’s going on?”

“Guess what I found out?” Jackson asks.

Chris longs to punch the smug little bastard in the face. “What?”

“There are six other rotters in town.”

“Six?” Kate pushes her way past Chris. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

Jackson’s never met Kate, so he gives Chris a somewhat uncertain look. Chris sighs and says, “Jackson, this is my sister, Kate. She heads up the HVF in west Phoenix. Kate, Jackson Whittemore. How did you find out, Jackson?”

“Lydia insisted I try being civil to that Stilinski rotter for half an hour,” Jackson says, rolling his eyes, “and he let it slip. He said there were half a dozen.”

“He didn’t know who they were?” Kate asks.

“He wouldn’t say,” Jackson says, his jaw setting in a mulish expression. “I tried to get him to tell me, but fucking McCall intervened.”

That doesn’t surprise Chris, not really. He’s been pretty sure for a while that he was losing McCall. He can’t blame the kid entirely. He knows the story, everyone knows the story, about how Stiles got killed luring a mountain lion away from Scott while he had an asthma attack. Scott had put on a big show for a while about how he wouldn’t accept Stiles’ return, but Chris had watched him, had seen him the night he had tried to kill Garrett Meyers. He hadn’t been surprised when Scott had called him a few days later and asked to be taken off the rotation.

“But,” Jackson continues, “I think I know who one of them is. Isaac Lahey.” He looks between the two of them, gets no recognition. “Uh, cap, you remember Cam, right? Camden Lahey?”

Chris nods, realization dawning. Kate frowns and says, “Well, I don’t.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Chris says, turning to her. “Cam was one of my lieutenants, one of the better ones, actually. He’d been serving in Iraq. But he dropped out of the HVF a lot sooner than most of my other lieutenants did, almost six months ago now.”

“So who’s Isaac?” Kate asks. “Dad? Brother?”

“Brother,” Jackson says. “Younger. About my age, when he died at least. We were never sure he was a rotter, never saw him. But it would explain why Cam left the HVF, if he decided to take care of him. Mutinous bastard.”

“Do you know where he’s living?” Kate asks, and Jackson nods. Kate gives a wicked, excited smile. “Then let’s go.”

“Wait.” Chris picks up his Glock and holsters it, then says, “Cam was one of my men. He saved my life more than once. I’ll handle this. Not you.”

“Always the good soldier,” Kate says. She laughs and shakes her head. “Okay, Chris. We’ll play it your way.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't really intending for Cam Lahey to have much of a role in this story, but then he showed up and THREW DOWN, so that came out interesting....

 

Camden Lahey lives in the first floor apartment in a duplex that’s in one of Beacon Hills’ more rundown areas. There are several cars in the parking lot, and Chris parks his SUV on the street. Kate and Jackson are both with him, but he says to them, “Secure the perimeter,” to keep them out of his way. There are children playing in the yard. He’s not going to kill anyone here, not unless he has to.

There’s no doorbell, so he gives the door a solid knock. He hears barking and then Camden’s voice, a sharp command of, “down, Max.” The door opens a moment later to reveal Camden in a pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt. There’s a German Shepherd sitting behind him, large even for the breed, giving Chris the side eye. Camden doesn’t look surprised to see him, and straightens up into an automatic salute. “Captain.”

“Good to see you, Cam,” Chris says. “Got a minute?”

“Sure,” Camden says, leaning against the screen door, still closed between them.

Chris hesitates. “Can I come in?”

“Depends. Will you leave your gun at the door?”

Chris nods. He takes his sidearm out of its holster, holds it up, and then offers it to Camden by the grip. Camden opens the door and takes the gun. He unloads it and sets it on a side table.

It’s an unspoken knowledge between the two of them that Chris has at least one more gun. Equally unspoken is the truth that if he has to go for the one at his ankle, Camden will have about a fifty-fifty chance of intervening before he can get a shot off. Camden lets him inside and says, “Coffee?”

“Sure,” Chris says, and Camden pours them both a mug.

“I assume you’re here for Isaac,” Camden finally says.

Chris nods. “Is he here?”

“Upstairs, sleeping. Always been a night owl, my little brother. Can I tell you a story?”

“Sure,” Chris says, taking a drink of his coffee.

“My dad was always rough with us. You know, he was pretty heavy-handed as a parent. Spare the rod, spoil the child. It was always worse for Isaac. He wasn’t athletic or naturally good at sports, which was the shit my dad cared about. One time, after Isaac struck out at Little League, my dad beat him black and blue.” Camden takes a drink of his coffee. “Fucking little league, man.”

Chris says nothing. He knows where this is going. Camden is going to try to make him feel sorry for Isaac, make him feel like he deserves to live.

“When I joined the army, I told Isaac, it’ll be a couple of tours, I’ll get some money, and then I’ll come back for you. I’ll get us a place and you’ll be safe for him. I _promised_ him. Then in the middle of my second tour, he failed a chemistry test. My dad hit him, he fell, cracked his head open on the kitchen counter. My dad tossed him down the basement steps, told everyone he’d been at work when it happened, came home to find the body. A couple of his guys vouched for him. He paid them off. Nobody could prove any different even though a lot of people suspected what had happened.

“I get this call, right? I’m in Iraq. I’m dealing with a war, I’m getting shot at, I’m checking every step I take for fucking mines and IEDs and shit, and my sergeant calls me into his office. Which was really just this old hole in the ground. And he said there’d been an accident at home, my brother had been killed. And I’m standing there like, ‘but I’m the one getting shot at, why is he the one who got hurt?’ Shit. I survived two tours in Iraq, my little brother gets murdered by my asshole dad who can’t control his temper.”

Camden pours himself more coffee. He leans against the counter and says, “When news of the Rising came, I asked if I could be discharged to go home, instead of fighting off undead hordes in San Diego. They surprised me when they said yes, so home I came. I looked for him, for Isaac, but I never saw him. He got caught a few months later, over on the coast. And when they said ‘he’s getting discharged, will you take him’, I never thought for an instant about saying no. I got this place, got Max here for some security, to keep him company when I’m gone during the day.” He reaches down and scratches the dog behind the ears. “And if you touch my little brother, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Chris rubs a hand over his face. “Look, Cam, I understand that you feel like you failed your brother. And I understand that you would give anything to have him back with you. But that thing upstairs isn’t your brother.”

“Ah, fuck you, captain,” Camden says. “Blow it out your ass. You don’t have a God damned clue when you’re talking about.”

Chris blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the whole ‘invasion of the bodysnatchers’ bullshit,” Camden says. “Come on. I’ll grant, people coming back from the dead, pretty fucking weird. But I think some science-like explanation for why their brains restarted makes a lot more sense than demons or aliens or whatever all the Jerry-Falwell-wannabes are screaming about.”

When Chris still seems at a loss, Camden says, “Fuck this, I need a cigarette.” He shuffles around for a minute until he finds a pack and a lighter. “Tryin’ to quit,” he says, mostly to himself. “But sometimes, man . . .” He lights up and takes a long drag. “I know my brother, okay? Pretty sure I’d know if there was some alien thing walking around in his skin.”

“People believe what they want to believe,” Chris says.

Camden barks out a short laugh. “Ain’t _that_ the truth,” he says. He takes another drag on his cigarette. “You’ve met the Stilinski kid by now, right?”

Chris nods. “A couple times.”

“He seems to be doing okay. I hear he’s gone out in public. Been harassed. Decided to leave rather than cause a scene. Asked the others not to tell his dad that Jackson had tried to kill him, ‘cause he doesn’t want to make trouble.” Camden exhales heavily. “Almost like he’s a real human being who understands the delicacy of the situation.”

Chris’ jaw tightens. “Look, I see what you’re trying to do – ”

“I’m not trying to do anything, captain. You believe whatever you want to believe. But Isaac isn’t hurting anybody. He never even leaves the house. He’s got the dog and the TV and the internet. He’s got every fucking right to be here. If you come after my little brother, we’re gonna have a problem.”

There’s a long minute of silence. “Keep him here,” Chris finally says. “Make sure he doesn’t go after anybody.”

Camden doesn’t argue. “Sure. Okay.”

“I’m going to have to mark your house. You know that, right? City ordinance.”

“Bunch of fat assholes passing laws about things they don’t know shit about,” Camden says. “Mark away. The neighbors figured it out weeks ago.”

And nobody had told Chris about it. That was interesting. He shakes his head a little and stands. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Thanks for not being a complete asshole.”

Chris retrieves his gun, scratches the dog behind the ears, and leaves the house. He finds Kate waiting in the little parking lot to the side. “Well?” she demands.

He addresses Jackson instead of her. “Got your paint?” he asks, and the teenager nods. “Okay. Mark the house.”

“That’s it?” Jackson demands.

“That’s it,” Chris says.

“That’s _it_?” Jackson repeats, his tone more incredulous.

Chris gives him a look. “If you’re waiting for me to explain myself, you’re going to be waiting a long-ass time,” he says. “Mark the house. We’re done here.”

Jackson’s jaw sets in that mulish expression of his, but he does as he’s told. Kate waits until he’s out of earshot, and says, more quietly, “So what’s the plan?”

“There’s no plan, Kate.” Chris shakes his head. “I’m not going to start a firefight with a guy who had my back during a war, just to kill a rotter who never even leaves the house. We’ll concentrate on the sheriff’s race. Then we can change the rules and get him out of town.”

Kate is staring at him in complete surprise. “Who would’ve thought,” she says. “My brother went soft.”

“Your brother got tired.” Chris turns towards the car. “I’m going home. You can do what you want, but he’s got a Kalashnikov and an enormous dog, so I wouldn’t risk it, if I were you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek glowers at the large black letters labeling the Stilinski house as ‘PDS’ and wonders how he got talked into this. Stiles had invited him over after the support group. He had talked pretty fast, skimmed over a lot of important details, wheedled, and basically kept talking until Derek agreed. “Dad can drive you, that way nobody will see your uncle’s car at our house,” Stiles says. He’s made up with his friend Scott. They’re going to hang out. He wants Derek to be there. Lydia’s coming, too. They can hang out together. It’ll be a party. He should spend time with some people who aren’t his uncle.

Derek’s not so sure about that. Peter has been suspiciously quiet and even absent for days. Derek has no idea what his uncle is up to, but he’s decided that he has no interest in finding out. Whatever Peter is involved in, odds are that he doesn’t want to know.

So somehow now he’s sitting at Stiles’ house, and against all odds, he’s having a pretty good time. Stiles has made popcorn. He can’t eat it, but he likes the smell. They put on a movie. Scott is cuddling with Kira, but he’s being pretty friendly with Stiles, too, reaching over to assure himself that Stiles is there, squeezing his shoulder. Every time he does, Stiles looks over and smiles at him.

It makes Derek feel a little awkward and melancholy, like he doesn’t belong there. He had never had a lot of friends, was used to being alone. So it’s strange to sit there with these people who clearly want to be his friend. Lydia has a lot of questions for him, fascinated by his clear memories of the time during the Rising. She apologizes multiple times, but then suddenly starts asking questions again. He doesn’t actually mind. She’s in it for the science, and he thinks that the more details she gets, the better conclusions she’ll be able to come to. Who knows how many PDSS she might be able to help?

That’s another reason for celebration, sort of. After taking what looks like a cocktail of medication, Stiles drinks a small glass of iced tea with a single gram of sugar – and keeps it down. He reports feeling queasy, but doesn’t actually vomit. Lydia gets extremely excited about this, making a number of notes about what she wants to try next. Stiles gets ridiculously happy about the fact that he might get to have coffee at some point in his future.

“Tea has caffeine in it, too,” Kira points out.

“Not as much,” Stiles says. “There’s nothing that can replace a good old double shot latte.”

“You might want to make that part of your five-year plan,” Lydia says. “But still, now that I’ve gotten basic carbohydrates figured out, we should be able to build up from there. What do you want next?”

“I can pick?” Stiles asks, thrilled.

“Well, within a very, very small range of simple carbohydrates, yes,” Lydia says.

“Lemonade,” Stiles says. “It’s summer, we should have lemonade.”

“It’s a little acidic, but we can give it a try,” Lydia says, jotting down more notes.

Derek clears his throat. “Experiments work best when you have more than one test subject, right?” he asks, and Lydia nods. “Okay. Let me try it.”

Lydia tosses her hair and gives him a smile. Then she distributes another portion of the medication. Derek takes it, waits the ten minutes, and drinks his iced tea with sugar. Then he lies on his back on the sofa, moaning as knives start stabbing him in the stomach.

“I wonder why your reaction was different,” Scott says, as Stiles keeps Derek distracted by rubbing at his knee.

“Probably because he hasn’t spent the last month puking his guts out three times a week in preparation for this,” Stiles says.

“True,” Lydia says. “Less prep. We’ll be more careful next time.”

Derek moans in agreement.

“Movie?” Kira asks.

“Yeah,” Scott says, jumping off the sofa.

By the time the movie is over, Derek’s stomach has settled, and despite the pain, he hasn’t actually thrown up. They sit around and shoot the breeze for a while. It’s just past ten when they hear the first siren, and they don’t think much of it. Then a second one goes by, and then a third. Stiles looks up, frowning. “Wonder what’s going on?”

Scott kicks his feet back and forth. “Call your dad, find out,” he says.

“I dunno if I should bother him . . .” Stiles says.

“That was a fire truck,” Kira says, looking out the window. “Maybe there’s a fire somewhere.”

Derek goes stiff, then tries to hide it. Stiles sees it anyway, then says, “Yeah, I can at least call my dad and see what’s up.” He takes out his cell phone and starts tapping the screen. “Dad? No, I’m okay, but we’re hearing sirens. What’s going on? Oh. Wow, okay. Sure. Okay, see you later.” He hangs up and says, “Yeah, he says it’s a fire down on Ridge Street, so, not anything we have to – ”

“Ridge street?” Derek looks up. “That’s where Isaac and his brother live.”

“Shit,” Stiles says, with feeling.

“You don’t think – ” Kira says.

“Let’s go check it out,” Lydia says. When the others give her surprised looks, she says, “What? We’re all citizens of this town. We have every right to go see what’s happening. Maybe we’ll be able to help.”

Derek isn’t much convinced by her logic, but he wants to make sure that Isaac is okay, and Stiles clearly wants to do the same thing. After another moment of dithering, they all pile into Scott’s car and head over to the house where the Lahey brothers have been living.

When they get there, the entire house is engulfed in flames. The family that had been living in the other half of the duplex is standing outside in their pajamas. Two of the children are crying. There are already two fire crews working, but they seem to be concentrating on the surrounding houses, rather than the one that’s already on fire.

Derek stares up at the flames in fascination, and only jolts out of it when the sheriff comes over and says, “For God’s _sake_ , Stiles – ”

“Dad, this is Isaac’s place,” Stiles interrupts him.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Tom says, exasperated. “But it’s too hot to go inside, so – ”

“I’ll go in,” Derek says, stepping up next to them. When everyone stops and looks at him, he says, “I’m already dead. The flames can’t really hurt me. I can at least see if I can find the others.”

“Derek, you shouldn’t – ” Stiles says, but Derek’s already going up the steps. The front door of the house is on fire, and it’s easy to kick it in. Thick smoke rolls out of the interior, but it doesn’t bother him. He hears a barking dog further inside, and pushes his way down the hallway.

Max, the German Shepherd, is standing by a door, barking his head off. Derek pulls it open, not even noticing as he sears an imprint of the doorknob into his palm, and sees a narrow flight of steps down into a basement. “Isaac? Camden?” he shouts. “Are you down there?”

“We’re here, we’re okay!” Camden shouts. “God damned ankle got – get the dog outside, we’re okay down here another minute – ”

Derek scoops Max up in his arms, although it’s not easy, because the dog is clearly hysterical, but he manages to wrestle it back down the hallway and outside. Scott grabs Max’s collar after Derek emerges, smoke wafting off his shirt. “They’re in the basement, I think Cam must be hurt or something,” he says, and heads back towards the door.

“Derek, for Christ’s sake, we can send in the firemen now that we know where he is,” Tom says, signaling to two of the men standing nearby.

“I’m fine, I can – ” Derek says, but before he can finish the sentence, there’s a tremendous noises and full half of the house simply caves in. They all stand there, staring at it, as the firemen begin to douse it with water. “Jesus,” Derek says. It looks from where he’s standing like the entire house fell into the basement. If Camden and Isaac were still down there, they’re buried alive.

“Derek, don’t – ” Tom says, as Derek jogs forward. “Christ, Stiles, not you too!”

“We’ll be fine, Dad,” Stiles calls after him, as they push through the rubble and the flames. “Advantages I hadn’t thought of,” he says, following Derek to the place where the basement steps had once been.

“We’re probably burning the shit out of our feet,” Derek agrees. Someone has redirected the water spray, and the steam is clearing up a little. He can see again, but it rapidly becomes clear that the debris is going to be too heavy to move. Even together, he and Stiles can barely shift some of the chunks of wood and stone that have come down with the house.

Eventually, they’re forced to admit defeat, and back away to leave things to the professionals. Derek watches in silence, keenly aware that the longer it takes, the less chance there is that they’ll find anyone alive. Even if they survived the initial collapse, the temperatures in the basement are still rising, and the smoke – well, he knows all too well how easy it is to die from smoke inhalation. Isaac can survive that, but not Camden.

“Here, over here!” someone finally shouts, and Derek jolts to his feet. But he stays back, not wanting to get in the way. A few minutes later, two firemen emerge. One of them is helping Camden walk, somewhat shakily, towards where the front door had been. The other has Isaac slung over his shoulder.

“Are they okay?” Stiles asks, pushing forward. His father waves him back while paramedics take over. Camden winds up sitting on the back steps of the ambulance, getting oxygen, his face practically gray while he watches them lay Isaac on the ground. He’s not conscious, and nobody knows what to do for him. All the first aid they would apply to a living person is out the window.

“He saved my life,” Camden says hoarsely. “When the house collapsed. He shielded me from the debris, took a big chunk of stone right to the back of the fucking head. I’d be dead if it weren’t for him. Maybe he – maybe he thought he could survive it.”

“Maybe he can,” Stiles says, looking over at Isaac’s still body, and gives a hysterical little laugh. “How can we know? We can’t exactly check a pulse.”

Camden shakes his head slowly. His eyes are a little glassy from pain and oxygen loss. “All those assholes talking about how rotters don’t feel, and my brother goes and takes a brick to the back of the head for me.”

Derek leans over Isaac’s still form and wonders what to do. He knows that a good head shot is enough to take out a rotter, but Isaac’s head still seems intact. He prods at it gently. He doesn’t feel any obvious holes or fractures. There’s no blood, although of course there wouldn’t be. There was never any way to be certain with PDSS. That’s why the HVF had always burned any bodies that they managed to recover.

Slapping him won’t do any good, since they don’t really feel pain, and a glass of cold water to the face probably won’t matter either, since they don’t feel cold. He thinks about this for a second, then says, “Stiles, have you got a flashlight app on your phone?”

“What? Yeah, why?”

“Let me see it,” Derek says, holding his hand out. Stiles turns the flashlight on and hands it over. Derek uses one hand to hold one of Isaac’s eyelids open, then shines the flashlight right into his eye. His pupil constricts automatically, which is a little creepy, and then the teenager gives a sharp groan.

“Ow, what the hell,” Isaac mumbles.

“Isaac!” Camden pushes the EMT aside and goes to his knees beside his little brother. “Hey, Isaac, can you hear me?”

“What hapn’d?” Isaac slurs out.

“You got knocked out,” Camden says. “You’re okay.”

It takes a few minutes to get everything sorted out. Camden is sternly shoved back into the ambulance so he continue to get some oxygen. Isaac winds up propped up between Derek and Stiles as they watch the last of the flames gutter out. The fire crews are swarming around like bees, and a huge crowd has gathered. There are at least a dozen police officers present, trying to keep things under control. Everyone knows who lived in the house, and there are several HVF members in the crowd, wearing their fatigues and their armbands.

“You!” Camden spots Chris Argent on the edge of the crowd, and without warning, he marches over and punches the other man across the face. Chris goes reeling, nearly losing his feet. “You son of a bitch! I warned you not to come after us, you piece of shit, I’m going to – ”

Chris backs away a step, hands held up in surrender. “Camden, I didn’t do this,” he says.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Camden asks incredulously. “You think I’m going to believe that? You find out my brother’s here and two days later my house just happens to burst into flame? How fucking stupid do you think I am?”

“I think you’re not stupid at all.” Chris catches his gaze and holds it. “Which means you know that I would never risk harming innocents. You live in a duplex, Camden. There are _children_ here. If I wanted to kill your brother, I’d set up a sniper rifle there – ” He points to one of the nearby trees. “Wait for him to walk in front of the window, and take him out. I would _never_ do something like this, and you know it.”

Camden’s jaw sets in an angry scowl, but after another moment, he gives a jerky nod. “Fine, then, but you bet your ass that it was one of your guys, and you’d better help me figure out who!”

The sheriff intervenes then, putting a hand on Camden’s shoulder and gently drawing him backwards. “Camden, we’ll get this figured out,” he says. “If it was arson, we’ll find out who did it, and we’ll – ”

“You’ll what?” Camden asks. “Give me a break! You think Mike fucking Whittemore is going to prosecute whoever did this? Hell, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was one of the guys out here with a Zippo and a bunch of gasoline! What the fuck are you going to do about this? You couldn’t even get that little douche-bro Jackson arrested after he nearly killed your kid in a coffee shop!”

“I couldn’t – wait, _what_?” Tom asks, his voice sharp, abrupt. When both Camden and Chris just blink at him, he whirls on Stiles, who’s trying to melt into the background. “What happened?”

“Nothing, Dad, it wasn’t a big deal, he just – we got in a fight, that’s all,” Stiles says.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Tom demands.

“I just – look, a lot had happened and I didn’t want – I couldn’t – ” Stiles shakes his head, voice trailing off miserably.

Tom takes a deep breath. “We’ll talk about this later,” he says. “Don’t you think we’re done with it. But I’ve got work to do.” Then he turns back to Camden. “Mr. Lahey, we will find out who set this fire, and I will personally make sure that justice is served. I don’t want any vigilante justice from _either_ side of this whole mess. Is that clear?”

“Yeah,” Camden says, though he’s clearly not thrilled.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I think we should send Isaac back to my place, with Stiles and his friends. I have a panic room there; it’s probably the safest place for him while we get this sorted out.”

Camden nods. He gives Isaac a quick, tight embrace, and thrusts Max’s leash into his hands. Isaac heads off with Stiles and Scott, giving a nervous look over his shoulder. The sheriff watches them go, frowning, and then beckons to Parrish. “Get rid of these people,” he says, under his breath. “They’ll take it better from you.”

Parrish nods a little and moves over to the crowds. “Okay, guys, let’s move along here, we’ve got work to do . . .” he says, and gradually the crowd starts to disperse.

Tom studies Chris for a moment. He’s watching the last of the flames gutter out. “You wanna tell me who did this, Chris?”

Chris shakes his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t approve it; that’s all I can tell you.”

Tom narrows his eyes, then says, “Go on, get out of here. Police business. And call your lawyer. You’re coming in for questioning tomorrow, and believe me, you’re going to want one present.”

After a moment, Chris nods and departs. Tom shakes his head and gets to work. It’s a long, busy night of sifting through the rubble and cataloguing evidence. The county fire chief is there as well, of course, and Tom doesn’t know him but thinks he can be trusted. He doesn’t get home until after dawn, and finds his living room full of sleeping teenagers. Scott and Kira are nestled together on a pile of cushions. Stiles has let Isaac have the couch, and the teenager is sprawled out there, sound asleep with the dog covering half his body. Lydia is on her side in the armchair. Derek is curled up in a corner.

He doesn’t see Stiles anywhere, but the smell of coffee and a few sounds from the kitchen allow him to locate his son quickly enough. Stiles is whisking eggs and milk together. “Oh, hey,” he says, not meeting Tom’s gaze. “Figured I’d make some breakfast.”

“Uh huh.” Tom decides he’ll let Stiles have his props, if that’ll make the conversation easier. “And while you’re doing that, you’re going to tell me what happened at the coffee shop. In detail. _Excruciating_ detail.”

Stiles doesn’t look up, but continues whisking. “Lydia asked me if I would go to coffee with her and Jackson. She was basically just using me as an excuse to get out of dating him again. We tried to have a civil conversation. It didn’t work out. He realized I knew who the other PDSS in town were, and decided to try to convince me to tell him. I wouldn’t. Scott intervened and told him off, I was fine, we all went home. Beginning, middle, end.”

“Oh, that’s the beginning and the end all right, but why do I feel like you’re leaving out huge parts of the middle?” Tom asks. “Convince you how?”

Stiles’ jaw tightens. He sets the bowl on the counter and goes into the refrigerator for bread. Facing the counter, he taps the spot right behind his ear. “He put a knife up against my neck and threatened to put it in my brainstem. Apparently that’s the most efficient way of killing someone with PDS.”

“Jesus,” Tom says, with feeling. “Why the _hell_ didn’t you tell me about this?”

“Because I was scared,” Stiles chokes out. “He said he would tell everyone that I started it. That I was rabid. I thought they – they would put me down, or take me away, and I – I promised to stay with you. I knew nobody would believe me. He said he’d get everyone to back him up. And even – even if they didn’t – I thought about what you would think, what you would _do_ , if you tried to, to go through legal channels and it didn’t work – I thought what if you tried to kill him or something and they take _you_ away, what would I do without you? I, I couldn’t – I couldn’t handle that.”

“Oh, kid,” Tom says, getting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. He lets out a breath and holds his trembling son tightly against him. “Okay. I get it. But next time, talk to me first, okay? I’m pretty sure I’m not going to go off the rails. We’ll talk it through, we’ll make a decision together.”

Stiles nods and just lets his father hold him for a few minutes. “Thanks,” he finally says. He swallows and pulls away. “What – what are we going to do?”

Tom frowns a little as his son goes back to the French toast he’s making. “Chris Argent says he’s not responsible for the fire, and I believe him,” he says. “And if he’s slowly coming around to the idea of the PDSS being in town isn’t the God damned apocalypse, I don’t want to do anything that might change his mind. Camden says he was actually pretty reasonable about Isaac being here. So if he’s softening up, then he’s losing control over his lieutenants.” He glances out into the other room thoughtfully. “Think Scott would sit down with me and tell me a bit more about the HVF’s power structure?”

“Sure, I think so,” Stiles says. “How did Chris even know that Isaac was here?”

“I think they just figured it out through logic,” Tom says. “Everyone was pretty sure Isaac was PDS – he died right around the same time you did – and Chris would have had reason to be suspicious, since Cam dropped out of the HVF when so many other people stayed in.” He shakes his head. “But I’m going to have an official interview with Chris later today, so maybe I can get more information from him.”

“Five bucks says he won’t talk,” Stiles says.

Tom sighs. “No bet. Look, I’m going to take a quick shower while you finish with breakfast. It’s gonna be a long day.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many revelations in this chapter, I'm so excited. =D

 

The interview with Chris was exactly just as fruitless as Tom had expected. Tom believes that he wasn’t responsible, but he thinks Chris have some ideas about who was. He spends over an hour pushing and prodding for some sort of useful information before the lawyer finally says the interview is over. Chris won’t even tell him which of his men knew that Isaac was there, and since they had marked the house, almost anybody could have figured it out.

The initial report from the arson investigator confirms that an incendiary device was used. That matches up with what Camden had said. “I know what an explosion sounds like, okay?” had been the veteran’s opinion when asked if he thought the fire could have started accidentally. But it looks like it was homemade, something involving household chemicals, and will be practically untraceable. Any fingerprint evidence will be long gone, due to the flames.

He can’t interrogate every one of Chris’ lieutenants, but Scott helps him narrow down the few he thinks are the most likely, the people who had been involved with violence even after reintegration had started. All of them claim to know absolutely nothing about the fire.

It’s Jackson Whittemore that he really wants to talk to, and it takes him several days to accomplish that. Jackson refuses to come in, so he has to get a subpoena to force him into an interview. That royally pisses off his father, who insists on attending the interrogation. It works out, however, because it gives the sheriff some time to put together some additional information.

“So,” Tom says, looking across the table at the sullen teenager. “How did you know that Isaac Lahey was back in Beacon Hills?”

“Who says I did?” Jackson sneers at him.

“Three of his neighbors, actually,” Tom says, sliding a witness statement across the table to him. “All three of them report seeing you lurking around the Lahey’s apartment in the days before the fire.”

A little flustered, Jackson replies, “That, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well, it gives you a connection to the victim,” Tom says. “It places you at the scene of the crime. You already had motive. Means and opportunity are pretty well-covered. I’ve got a warrant for your computer, so I can check your history to see if you were looking up how to cook up a bomb, although it might not mean anything if you weren’t. You guys used explosives during the Rising, right?”

“Not to set houses on fire,” Jackson retorts.

“You’ve also got a history of violence,” the sheriff continues, implacable. “I hear that you cornered a PDSS at a coffee shop and threatened to stab him in the brainstem if he wouldn’t tell you the identities of the other PDSS in town.”

Jackson scoffs, but he looks nervous, now that the sheriff obviously knows about the way he assaulted Stiles. “You can’t prove that.”

“Well, I have two witnesses whose account of it matches that of the victim’s,” Tom says. “Now, for some strange reason the victim doesn’t want to press assault charges against you, which is pretty fortunate for you, but he might change his mind if he thinks that you being out on the streets is putting other people in danger.”

“I didn’t blow up Lahey’s place, okay?” Jackson snaps.

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know, how the hell should I know?”

“Who did you tell that he was back in town?”

“Nobody! Just Captain Argent,” he amends. “He went to go talk to them, and then said we were going to mark the house and that was it. No, I wasn’t fucking happy about it, but he’s the boss.”

“And then, let me guess, you went down to the tavern and complained loudly about how unfair it was,” Tom says.

“It’s not like I incited a riot,” Jackson says.

“Look, kid,” Tom says, “someone you told about Isaac being in town decided to go burn his house down and try to kill him. From where I’m standing, you’re the number one suspect. If you can’t give me another name, then I’m going to charge you with attempted murder.”

“You can’t do that!” Jackson protests. “You know I didn’t do it!”

“I don’t know that,” Tom says. “I don’t know that at all. You saying it doesn’t make it so.”

“Look, I don’t know!” Jackson says. “Yeah, okay, I complained about it, and yeah, a few people said ‘we should do something about it’ kind of thing, but what do you fucking expect when a rotter moves in? Nobody actually made any plans, nobody mentioned burning the house down or blowing it up or anything like that. It was just some guys talking shit.”

“Give me their names,” Tom says, “and I’ll think about letting you go home.”

Acting surly, Jackson does. Tom takes them and asks Parrish to round them up, and Parrish says he will. “You know, one more thing I was thinking about,” Parrish says. “What about Roger Lahey? If he really murdered Isaac, he’d have good reason to try again. Even knowing that Isaac can’t legally incriminate him, he might want to make sure he shuts up. If Isaac told Camden what their dad did, then Camden might have wanted revenge.”

Tom frowns thoughtfully, and nods. “Bring him in. I’ll be back in a half hour or so.”

Parrish waves as Tom hops in the cruiser. He’s got a lot of work to do, but it’s time for the support group, and while he wouldn’t mind skipping it, he knows that Stiles wants to go. He sees Derek all the time now, but he wants to check in with Isaac. In the aftermath of the house fire, Derek had awkwardly asked Isaac and Camden if they wanted to come live in the farmhouse Peter had bought. They had accepted, so for now at least, they’re living out on the edge of town with the Hales.

Camden is still righteously pissed off about what had happened, and Tom doesn’t want to sit through the support group with him, so he drops Stiles off and walks him inside. He’s a little surprised when Peter pulls him aside. “Can I have a word, Sheriff?”

“Sure,” Tom says, giving Stiles a shoulder squeeze as he goes to say hello to Erica and Isaac.

Peter goes out into the hallway with him. “I was wondering if I could ask for a favor.”

“You can always ask,” Tom says.

“Is there a way I could get a copy of the arson investigator’s report on the Lahey house fire?”

Tom gives a snort. “Isn’t that the sort of thing you normally get under the table and I pretend I don’t know about it?”

Peter shrugs. “My usual source for that sort of police information went MIA during the Rising, unfortunately. I figured it would be easier to just ask.”

“Why do you want it?” Tom asks, folding his arms over his chest.

“I’d like to see if there were any similarities between that fire and the one that killed my family,” Peter says.

Tom rubs a hand over the back of his head. “Peter, I get that that was hard on you, but the arson investigator ruled that fire was an accident.”

“Yes, I’m aware. He received a sum of fifty thousand dollars to do that. I had an independent investigator come in and do a second report.”

“You – what?” Tom is staring at him. “Are you saying that the Hale house fire wasn’t an accident? And you knew that? You had _evidence_? Why the hell didn’t you give it to me?”

“Well, primarily because I hadn’t put all the pieces together before I myself met an untimely demise,” Peter says, “but also because you would have wanted to do something like arrest them, whereas I was more interested in ripping their fingernails out with pliers. But if they’re back now, if they’ve struck again, then I might be able to find new evidence.”

“Jesus, Peter,” Tom says, pushing a hand through his hair. “Fine. Okay. But we’ll work together on it. I’ll give you the file on the Lahey house, _if_ you’ll exchange it with the information you have about the fire that killed your family.”

“Agreed,” Peter says, “but I can’t come by the station.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tom says. “Stiles is going over to your place tomorrow. I’ll bring it when I drop him off.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“So, what’s up with you and Derek?” Scott asks, his mouth full of Doritos. They’re the hot and spicy kind, which Stiles doesn’t – _didn’t_ – like. He still feels awkward eating in front of Stiles, and has a tendency to eat things that he knows Stiles wouldn’t eat even if he could.

Stiles is suddenly grateful that he’s dead and can’t blush. “What do you mean, what’s up with me and Derek?”

“I mean, _what’s up_ with you and Derek,” Scott says, nudging at Stiles’ shoulder and smirking at him. “You talk about him a lot. You go over to his place a lot. You let him _paint_ you.”

“It’s not a big deal, he just, ugh,” Stiles says, trailing off into mutters when he sees Scott’s grin. “Yeah, he’s . . . cool. I like him, okay?”

“Well, he’s obviously got an enormous crush on you,” Lydia says, barely looking up from the tables of chemical calculations that she’s focusing on.

“What! N-No he doesn’t!”

“He asked to _paint_ you,” Scott says, rolling his eyes.

“He paints lots of people. I mean, he has sketchbooks full of people that he’s drawn, people he met at the PDS facility and his family and stuff like that,” Stiles says, trying not to sound too defensive.

Scott smirks. Lydia snickers. “You li-i-i-ike him,” Scott teases. “You wanna d-a-a-a-ate him.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” Stiles says, losing his temper. “You know why not? Because that,” he says, gesturing to his crotch, “doesn’t work. Trust me. I’ve tested it extensively at this point. No pulse. No blood flow. No boners. So what the hell does it matter if Derek likes me or not?”

“There are more to relationships than sex,” Lydia says.

“Spoken like someone who can have it basically whenever she wants,” Stiles retorts. He sees the way they’re looking at him and says, “Ugh, don’t even do that! Don’t look at me like you’re _sorry_ for me. I can’t fucking stand that and you know it.”

Scott ducks his head. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “But I still think, maybe you should say something? Because even if you’re right and we don’t totally understand it, I think that you and Derek could be a thing even if you can’t have sex. I mean, you could cuddle.”

“Can you picture Derek cuddling?” Stiles asks.

“Absolutely,” Lydia says, going back to her graphs.

To be fair, Stiles would love to cuddle with Derek. It sounds like the most fantastic experience that could be had on earth. To just nestle against that broad chest, rest his cheek against Derek’s shoulder and let the other man wrap those amazing arms around him. Even without the ability to blush or get boners, he longs for it with a sudden intensity.

Lydia and Scott seem to know what he’s thinking. They exchange a glance, and Lydia says, quietly, “It’s about intimacy, Stiles. About trust. Your significant other is someone who . . . is something more than a friend. Who’s always there for you. I think maybe you and Derek would both be happier if you talked about it. Even if you can’t have sex.”

“Maybe,” Stiles mutters. He crumples one of Lydia’s spare papers and starts tossing it in the air and catching it on the way down. “It sucks. I died a virgin and now I’m a virgin for eternity. I’m not sure if it would be worse to know what I was missing or not.” He throws the paper at Scott. “Tell me what I’m missing.”

“What, like, tell you about sex?” Scott asks. “Uh, it’s kind of hard to just describe.”

“Tell me a story about a time you and Kira had sex,” Stiles says.

Scott flushes. “No way. She’d kill me.” He sees Stiles’ puppy dog eyes and says, “Okay, well, there was the time her dad walked in on us. We’re totally _right_ in the middle, you know? And I just like, dropped, and Kira yanked the blankets up. And her dad’s just as calm as ever, like, completely unflappable, and he says he was looking for one of his textbooks, had Kira seen it, and she said no, and then he asked if I was staying for dinner, and she said yes. Then he asks – he’s still standing there while we both try to disappear into the sheets – he asks if we’re using a condom.” Scott is laughing by this point. “And Kira was like ‘oh my God, Dad, yes, now get out!’ and he said okay and just, like, moon-walked out of the bedroom. We laughed ourselves sick.”

Stiles is laughing, too. “Sounds like a traumatic experience for sure. Okay, tell me another one.”

“No!” Scott protests.

“I could tell you a story about me and Jackson having sex,” Lydia offers.

“No thanks,” Stiles says, and Lydia gives a snort of laughter. “Okay, okay. How is Jackson the Great in the sack?”

“Mediocre,” Lydia says, “which makes him better than a lot of guys, to be frank. But he’s not really my type.”

“Am I your type?” Stiles asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Honey, no,” she says, without missing a beat, and Stiles laughs. She shuts her books and then looks up with a smile. “Okay, I’m done for the day. You two want to go catch a movie?”

“As long as it doesn’t have zombies in it,” Stiles agrees.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Tom is frustrated by the time he leaves the police station the next evening. He’s getting nowhere fast in the Lahey case, and every time he talks to Camden, the veteran just gets more and more sarcastic about it. He doesn’t blame Camden for being pissed off, but his attitude isn’t precisely helping matters, either.

Roger Lahey was the only suspect who wasn’t related to the HVF, and neither Tom nor any of his deputies could find him. His house was dusty and a lot of belongings were gone. His phone was disconnected. Tom had asked Camden about it, and the other man wasn’t surprised. “I knew that Isaac couldn’t testify against him, but I believed what he said about what our dad did,” Camden says. “It’s the only damned thing he _does_ remember. Anyway, I told my dad that just because he couldn’t be prosecuted didn’t mean that I wanted to look at his ugly fucking mug, so if he was smart, he’d get out of town.”

It’s a shame, because the more Tom looked in to Roger Lahey, the more he liked him as a suspect. If his violent history against his son and considerable motive to keep him quiet about the role he had played in Isaac’s murder wasn’t enough, he _also_ has a history of bad behavior regarding PDSS. He was in the HVF, before Camden got there, for the first few months. Scott never dealt with him, but one of the other lieutenants says that he and Chris Argent had argued a lot of the time, and Chris had finally gotten sick of his attitude and thrown him out.

The HVF was so undermanned and outgunned in the first few months that Tom thinks he must have had one _hell_ of an attitude problem for that to happen. He calls Chris and asks him about it, and Chris confirms. “He wasn’t reliable,” Chris says. “And not because he would get frightened and freeze up, or because he misunderstood. I could’ve dealt with either of those things. He just wouldn’t obey orders if he didn’t agree with them. A soldier like that puts everyone in danger, and I didn’t need or want one.”

But he’s gone, or if he’s still in town, Tom has no idea where to find him.

So he’s at a dead end. He got search warrants for the likeliest members of the HVF, searched their homes and their computers to see if he could find materials or information about making bombs, but there’s nothing, and he doesn’t know where to go with it.

But then he and Peter sit down with the case file for the Hale house fire and the second investigation that Peter had hired done. It’s late at night. Stiles is in Derek’s studio, and the place is quiet. Peter flips through the pages of the report the sheriff had brought, and Tom does the same. “I don’t see a lot of similarities,” he finally says.

“Nor do I,” Peter admits. The fire in the Lahey’s duplex had been a chemical reaction with a simple trigger; the Hale house fire had been manipulated electrical wiring. It looked a lot like an electrical fire, except that some circuits were connected where they shouldn’t be. “But a serial arsonist might have different methods.”

Tom rubs a hand over his forehead. “Peter, are you going to tell me what the hell is going on? Why do you think a serial arsonist is even involved?”

“Because she’s a professional assassin,” Peter says, without looking up from the report. “A hit man. She was hired by several city officials after my brother-in-law uncovered evidence of high-level corruption.”

Tom feels sick. “Jesus. Are they still in power?”

“Several of them, yes.” Peter turns a page. “Though a few were killed during the Rising. And no, I’m not going to tell you who they are, although you can figure out the identity of at least two, if you try.”

After a long pause, Tom tilts his head back and lets it thump against the wall. “Mike Whittemore and Gerard Argent.”

“Mm. Aaron was a defense attorney, as you know. I was doing some investigation on one of his cases and it led us to the conclusion that several city attorneys, judges, and other officials were trading political favors to sweep criminal cases under the rug or settle civil cases out of court. Some of them were small infractions like traffic violations. But at least one involved sexual assault of a minor, and another was domestic violence.” Peter finally looks up. “Before Aaron or I could format a plan of action to expose them, the house was burned down.”

“But you survived.”

“Unfortunately for them, yes,” Peter says. “And I got far enough in my research to find a hit man whose MO was to cause house fires, and then bribe the arson investigator to say it had been a tragic accident. What I can’t figure out is why she would have burned the Lahey duplex down. I don’t believe she was local, from what I heard about her.”

“We don’t know that it’s connected,” Tom says.

“No, we don’t, but you had better hope it was,” Peter says, “because if it wasn’t, you’ve got nothing, don’t you. And your re-election banks on the fact that you can control this town while PDSS are reintegrated. The people who are on the fence will go with zealotry and martial law over incompetence and unsafe streets, if that’s the choice they’re presented with.”

“Thanks, Peter. Now I feel really good about myself.”

Peter just smirks at him. “Don’t worry yourself, sheriff. This is what I do.”

Tom shakes his head and stands up, thinking that he’ll go get Stiles and get out of this madhouse before things get worse. Peter calls after him. “If you don’t mind keeping this to yourself . . .?”

“I’m not an idiot, Peter, I understand the need for discretion,” Tom says, then narrows his eyes at Peter. “But that’s not what you mean, is it. You’re talking about Derek. He doesn’t know.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and then Peter shakes his head. “I haven’t figured out how to tell him.”

Tom decides he can understand that. How _does_ one go about saying to their nephew, ‘Remember that accident you thought you died in? It turns out that it was a murder, and the murderers are still totally in positions of power and might decide to try to kill us again at any time.’ He nods and says, “Okay, I won’t say anything to him or to Stiles. But you’d better think about figuring it out, because if we can connect it to the Lahey fire, it won’t stay quiet for long.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris’ apartment has even less furniture now than it did when Kate showed up a few weeks previous, and he would gladly admit that he totally did it to spite her. Once the kitchen chairs were removed, there was nowhere for her to sit while she rattled at him about her anti-reintegration strategies and her campaign for him to be sheriff, a job he’s getting less and less interested in by the day. He eats sitting on the floor now. Who the hell cares?

He had meant to go to bed hours previous, but there had been a scare on the outskirts of town, and he had gone to check it out. It had turned out to be a dog that had gotten loose. He and Boyd, the younger, had rounded it up and returned it to its grateful owner. Now he was lying on the floor in the center of his living room, staring up at the ceiling.

“I’m just _worried_ about you,” Kate had said over dinner at the tavern.

Of course she is. She has good reason to be. He’s at the end of his rope and he knows it. He had been a military man, he had followed orders, then given orders. He had been a husband and a father. He had been the captain of the resistance. And now he’s none of those things. His wife is dead and his daughter is gone. The military wants nothing to do with him. He’s losing the HVF, too, and the scariest part is that he doesn’t even care.

He should care. He knows that. But he just doesn’t know how to react to what’s been happening recently. The logical, rational part of his mind is telling him that if Stiles can settle back in Beacon Hills without being rabid, then maybe they’re wrong about everything when it comes to PDS. Maybe reintegration wouldn’t be such a big deal.

But he can’t think that, he _can’t_.

_“Please, Chris, you have to – just pull the trigger, it’s going to be okay – ”_

He gives a little shudder and closes his eyes.

His enthusiasm for standing against reintegration is simply evaporating, and the more he tries to hold onto it, the quicker it seems to slip away, and the more angry and virulent the others get, the more he hates the knowledge that he used to look like that. Kate is trying to help but she’s making things worse, because he, well. He looked into her methods. Her ‘guerilla’ warfare.

The bill that she had helped pass in Arizona had had stiff opposition at first. Two of the representatives who had stood against it had simply vanished. Another three had reversed their votes quickly and silently. Blackmail, Chris supposed. A fourth had reversed her vote but said outright that she was doing so ‘under extreme pressure’, as if waving a white flag at whoever was tormenting her. Chris had found out that two of her children had been hospitalized around the same time as the vote.

After the rotter registry had become public, every single PDSS on the list in the Phoenix metro area was gone. Chris was sure that a lot of them had seen the way the wind was blowing, packed up, and moved away. But all of them? Either way, they were gone. Not a single one remained.

Then there was the fire.

He doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to think about Kate being willing to risk the lives of innocent, human children – but he can’t _stop_ thinking about it. He can’t put aside the way she looked at him after his meeting with Camden, her ‘what’s the plan’ that had been not businesslike, not born of strategy, but _excited_. Bloodthirsty.

Kate had burned that house down and he damned well knew it, and he simply didn’t know what to do with that. What could he say? Three weeks earlier he had put a gun to Garrett Meyers’ head in the street, and if Sheriff Stilinski hadn’t showed up, he would have pulled the trigger. How can he tell Kate that she needs to stop, she needs to leave, before she makes things even worse?

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by a knock at the door to his apartment. Figuring it’s Kate, because nobody else ever comes to see him, he grunts, “Yeah, c’min,” but there’s only a moment of hesitation and then another polite knock. He frowns and hauls himself up off the floor to head over and answer it. The man standing outside is wearing a neat suit and tie, and he’s not at all familiar. Chris frowns and says, “Help you?”

“Are you Chris Argent?” the man asks in a reedy voice.

“Who wants to know?”

The man holds out a government ID and says, “Luke Monroe, from the department of PDS reintegration. Can I come in?”

Chris doesn’t say yes, but he stands back and lets him inside. He wonders which bleeding heart has sent this guy to see him. Or maybe it’s about those re-education classes that he was supposed to go to but never did. “What do you want?” he asks.

“We had a Jane Doe in the Ukiah facility that we were only recently able to identify,” Monroe says. “It’s your daughter, Allison Argent.”

The breath goes out of Chris in a rush. He staggers back, fumbles for the chair, remembers that there isn’t one. The next thing he knows, he’s on the floor with his head between his knees while Monroe sits beside him, talking in a low, soothing voice. Chris supposes he probably gets this reaction a lot. Finally, he gathers himself enough to look up and say in a hoarse voice, “Allison. You’re sure?”

Monroe nods. “Once she was able to give us her name, we ran her DNA against that which had been put on file in her disappearance.”

Chris remembers that. Remembers Tom Stilinski coming into their house, using Tweezers to pluck a hair out of Allison’s brush. They had found a decomposing body in a landfill about a hundred miles away, and it had been close enough to Allison’s height and build that they had thought it might be her, so they checked the DNA. It hadn’t been.

Allison. His daughter, his beautiful princess, the only thing that mattered. Dead. But not dead. Alive. Partially.

He opens his mouth to say something and then the thought of her with that pale skin and dead eyes hits him. A shudder rocks through his body. He thinks about the rotters he put down in the woods, about watching them tear people apart, smash their skulls, eat their brains.

“I can’t,” he says. It comes out more of a groan than anything else. “I can’t.”

Monroe clears his throat but doesn’t say anything.

Chris forces himself to take a few deep breaths. He can’t deal with this. He can’t, so he won’t. Finally, he gets up, goes into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. He has to take several swallows before he can speak. His voice cracks, but only once. “It’s . . . not the answer I wanted, but at least it’s an answer. I can stop looking now that I know she’s gone.”

A faint frown crosses Monroe’s face. “Mr. Argent, I don’t think you – ”

“You can leave now,” Chris tells him, and points to the door.

There’s a moment of silence. Then Monroe takes a business card out of his pocket and sets it down on the kitchen counter. “If you change your mind, call me,” he says, and leaves without another word.

Chris closes his eyes and leans against the wall, letting himself slide to the floor.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *choirs of angels sing* Allison~

 

Stiles and his father are in the middle of a movie when there’s a knock at the door, then the jingle of keys that indicates that it’s Melissa. “Hey, guys!” she calls out, as she enters the house. “Wow, it’s a scorcher today,” she adds cheerfully, coming into the living room. Tom has already paused the movie, and stands up to greet her with an embrace.

“Want some lemonade?” he asks.

“Oh, sure!” she says. “I’m actually here on official business, but a drink would be great.”

The three of them head into the kitchen. Stiles looks at the lemonade with a wistful expression. “One teaspoon,” he says. “I can get down _one teaspoon_ of lemonade. Or actually five milliliters. Every time I don’t speak metric, Lydia smacks me.”

Melissa laughs. “That’s more than you could get down a month ago, bucko,” she says. “How is that going?”

“Eh, so-so,” Stiles says, making the universal wobbly hand motion. “Lemonade and orange juice are too acidic; I still have trouble with them. I can actually drink a centiliter of soda now, which is about three ounces. Simple carbohydrates are the easiest to compensate for, Lydia says. Still nothing solid, no proteins, no fats. At this rate it’s gonna be about fifty years before I can have a cheeseburger.”

“Well, you’ve got time,” Melissa says, accepting the lemonade with a smile.

“So what’s your official business?” Tom asks, clearly curious. “You didn’t have to come all this way; you could have called.”

“I wanted to discuss it with both of you, so . . .” Melissa lets out a breath. “The powers that be are wondering if you would be willing to take in another PDSS. A minor with nowhere else to go to reintegrate.”

“Oh,” Tom says, blinking. “Well, sure, I don’t see why not.” He looks at Stiles.

“I think that would be nice,” Stiles says. “Some company.”

“You would be her official guardian,” Melissa says. “Held responsible for her actions, et cetera. Her . . . she’s a unique case. She responded to the neurotriptyline, but didn’t have much memory recovery. She’s actually been in the institution for about two years now, and only just regained enough memory for them to be able to identify her. She’s also a murder victim, and her flashbacks can be severe. When they identified her, they notified her remaining family, and they . . . declined to take her.”

Stiles grimaces. God, he’d had nightmares about that in the facility, that his father wouldn’t want him back. “Can we, Dad?” he asks.

Tom nods. “Yeah, if you want to, then yes. Absolutely. Hey, it’s not like she’ll add to the grocery bill, right?” he jokes, nudging Stiles, who laughs.

“There’s an additional complication,” Melissa says, and pushes a hand through her hair. “Her name is Allison. Allison Argent.”

Both Tom and Stiles blink at Melissa for several moments. “Jesus,” Tom says, with force. “Is that – Chris’ daughter? That went missing?”

Melissa nods. “Yes, that’s her.”

“Holy shit,” Stiles says. It’s all he’s got. He remembers the disappearance of Allison Argent. _Everyone_ in Beacon Hills remembers the disappearance of Allison Argent. It was a huge deal at the time. He hadn’t known her well, because she had gone to the other high school, but a teenaged girl vanishing off the streets makes unforgettable headlines. The search for her had still been in full swing when he had died.

Tom’s jaw is set somewhat angrily. “So Chris refused to take her in.”

“Yes,” Melissa says, with a weary nod. “As far as I know, when the facility contacted him, his basic reaction was to say that although he was devastated to find out that his daughter was dead, at least he no longer had to live in uncertainty. I called and tried to talk to him, but he hung up on me. And he knows me; we worked together in the HVF, so I’m not just some faceless stranger. With time, and more chances, maybe, _maybe_ I can get through to him. But frankly, I don’t plan to hold my breath.”

“Does . . . does Allison know?” Stiles asks.

“She knows that her father isn’t able to take her,” Melissa says, “but I don’t think the facility went into much detail. I’m not sure it would matter. Her memories of her life seem very patchy. I don’t know that it would make a big impact, that a father she doesn’t remember doesn’t want her back.”

“Well, it might make more of an impact if she found out that he literally wanted to kill her,” Stiles says.

Tom shakes his head. “Obviously, we’ll have to take it slow with her, for a variety of reasons. But yes, we’ll take her.”

“Will you be able to drive to Ukiah to pick her up on Friday?” Melissa asks, and Tom nods. “All right. And this probably goes without saying, but – don’t contact Chris. I don’t want him knowing that you’re involved in this at all, and God knows what he would do if he found out she was staying here. The professionals will keep trying to work on his attitude.”

Tom mutters something about how Chris needs an attitude adjustment from his size ten boot. Stiles snickers despite himself.

“Well, kiddo?” he asks, once Melissa is gone. “You want to come to Ukiah with me?”

“Do you think it might be a little overwhelming for her if we both came?” Stiles asks.

“Maybe,” Tom says, “or maybe she’d like the company. We can’t really know, so it’s up to you.”

Stiles chews on it for a minute, thinking about his own release from the facility. He had felt so small and so afraid. Since she was being greeted by strangers, another friendly face probably wouldn’t hurt. “Yeah, I’ll come,” he decides. He squares his shoulders and says, “Guess we’ll need to get my old room cleaned out, then.”

Tom reaches over and gives his wrist a squeeze. “Are you ready to do that?”

“Yeah, I . . . I think I am,” Stiles says. “I mean . . . things are different now, but . . . they’re okay. I’ve made some friends, I have Lydia and Derek now . . . things are never going to be the way they used to be, but I think I’m okay with that now.”

His father gets an arms around him and hugs him so hard that he can barely breathe. But that’s all right. After all, he doesn’t need to.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek is working on his painting of Stiles at the window when the door to his studio opens. He glances over his shoulder to see Cora walk in and flop on the old sofa with a groan. She’s moving awkwardly, stiffly, and he frowns when he sees the bruises on her face. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing, got in a fight,” Cora says impatiently. “That’s coming out cool.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, looking back at it. He’s not satisfied with it, but he doesn’t think he ever will be. It’s the sort of thing that seems impossible to capture on canvas, looking back on it. “A fight with who?”

“Just a couple guys in my class,” Cora says. “It’s not a big deal.”

Derek walks over to her and tilts her chin up so he can better examine the dark bruise around her eye. She hisses in pain and he notices her split lip. “Did you get ice put on that?”

Cora huffs. “I’m not in grade school, Derek.”

“Yeah, I guess not.” Derek’s quiet for a minute. He grabs an old wooden chair, moves some of his supplies off of it, and swings it around so he can straddle it backwards. “Was this about me?”

After a long moment, Cora gives another huff. “Yeah,” she says.

Derek knows that she’s been harassed about this before. She told him about it at first, but then gradually stopped, because she doesn’t want him thinking that he’s at fault. He knows that she told her classmates and anyone else who asked a bunch of lies about what had happened to her family after the Rising.

Everyone agreed, even before Stiles got back and people started vandalizing his house, that it was just too dangerous for anyone to know which PDSS were back and which weren’t. Cora couldn’t avoid people knowing she had PDSS in her family, given how public their deaths had been, but when she got cornered, she told them that Derek hadn’t responded to the neurotriptyline, and had been put down. As for Peter, she said that he had called her when he got out of the facility, and she had told him to fuck right off. That wasn’t even a lie.

“Why are people starting with you again?” Derek finally asks, when Cora doesn’t say anything else.

Cora’s jaw squares in that stubborn, angry expression she has, and there’s a moment of internal struggle before she snaps, “Did you have to walk into a burning building? For Christ’s sake, Derek.”

Derek winces. “People saw me?”

“Like four dozen people saw you, Der, it was the least subtle thing in the universe,” Cora says. “And not everybody recognized you but enough people did that now it’s all over town that you’re back and that I’m a lying liar who lies.”

“Oh,” Derek says, and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sorry. But yes, to answer your question. I had to.”

“I know,” Cora says, and sighs. “Go get me a fucking ice pack.”

“Sure.” Derek stands and goes into the house. Peter isn’t there, gone off wherever he goes when people aren’t looking. But there’s some food and drinks in the house, now that Camden and Isaac are staying there. The old farmhouse is big enough to accommodate a dozen people. Camden is off at work, and Isaac is playing video games in the living room. Derek fills a washcloth with ice and brings it back to the studio, handing it to Cora before sitting down.

“So these two guys. Upperclassmen.” Cora’s voice is short and abrupt. “They cornered me during gym. I told them to leave me alone. They said they knew you were back and wanted to know where you were. I told them that they could take a long walk off a short pier. I think they were going to rough me up a bit but Finstock came over and broke it up.

“But. After school. They showed up at the house with a couple of their friends. They said they wanted to see if you were there. I told them you weren’t but they bullied their way inside and wrecked a bunch of shit. I kept trying to get in their way so they smacked me around a bit. When they decided you weren’t there, they tried to bully me into telling them where you were staying. But then Señora Dominguez got home from school and they left.”

“Jesus, Cora,” Derek says. “Did you call the cops?”

“What? No,” Cora says. She looks genuinely startled at this question. “Anyway, Señora Dominguez was upset and she said some stuff she’ll probably regret later so I left and came here.”

“Did she throw you out?” Derek asks, tensing.

“No. She just said I should have told them and what did it matter if they found out, blah, blah, blah,” Cora says. Her face is closed off, angry and bitter. “She’s just scared.”

Cora rarely has patience for people who act out of fear, but Derek knows that she has a soft spot for the junior high school Spanish teacher who had taken her in during the Rising, so he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he gets up and says, “Come on. We’re going down to the police station.”

“Derek,” Cora says, edging perilously close to a whine. “Why? They can’t do anything about it and you know it.”

Derek fights for self-control. “Maybe they can’t,” he says. “But we have to at least give them the chance. Because if nobody reports this kind of bullshit, they won’t get a chance to prove that they _can_ make a difference. And if they can’t, Sheriff Stilinski is going to lose the election to Chris Argent. Is _that_ what you want?”

Cora’s jaw sets, but she mutters a sullen, “No.”

“Then come on. We’re going to the station.”

“At least put on your face,” Cora says.

“Why?” Derek asks, exasperated. “I’m sick of all this bullshit. Stiles goes around without his makeup.”

“And we all know that everything’s about Stiles,” Cora says, rolling her eyes.

Derek folds his arms over his chest. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“The only reason you care whether or not Stilinski wins the election is because if he doesn’t, you know that Stiles will leave town,” Cora retorts. “You don’t give a shit about your fellow PDSS. You don’t care about how I’m being harassed – ”

“That’s not fucking true and you know it – ”

“You just want to impress Stiles because for some reason you’re in _love_ with him like some loser and what’s the fucking point anyway?” Cora’s raised her voice. “You’re dead, you stupid idiot, why would you bother falling in love?”

Derek opens his mouth to reply, but then looks away and says nothing.

Cora flinches and then says, “Shit. I didn’t – didn’t mean that. I just – ”

“It’s fine, Cora,” Derek says, pretending that he doesn’t feel like he’s bleeding to death from some internal wound. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It isn’t fine, I mean . . . I know what you’re going to say, that I was hurt too, that it’s okay to be angry, but . . . maybe I’m just jealous. You’ve been a lot happier since you started hanging out with Stiles and I guess it burns a little that he can do that for you, and I can’t.”

Derek reaches out and snags his sister in a hug, pressing his cheek against her hair. “You’re the only reason I stayed here, Cora. The only reason I came back at all. Okay?”

“Yeah,” she mumbles into his chest. She pulls away after a minute and rubs at her eyes. “Are we going to the station or what?”

Derek tugs on her braid and says, “Yes, we are.” But he still doesn’t put on his makeup. All commentary about Stiles aside, he just hates the stuff. He jogs into the rest of the house to tell Isaac where they’re going, and then they head out. Since Peter’s not home, they take Cora’s car, a heap of junk that she fixed up herself. It shudders back to life in a way that makes Derek hold his breath.

Twenty minutes later, they’re at the police station. Derek steels his nerves and then walks inside. It goes quiet, but not totally. Several people give him sideways looks, but they’re used to Stiles, so his face doesn’t completely freak them out. He guides Cora up to the counter and says, “We need to see the Sheriff.”

The woman behind the counter shifts uncomfortably. “Well, Sheriff Stilinski isn’t in right now. Can I take a message?”

“We’ll wait,” Derek says.

“Um,” the woman says, glancing around. “That might not be the best idea – ”

Derek is about to ask why and possibly say something rude when a young man with short brown hair pokes his head out of the station’s main room. He does a double take when he sees Derek and Cora, but then asks, politely, “Can I help you?”

“We need to see the sheriff,” Derek repeats.

“He’s out of town today. I’m Deputy Parrish.” He takes a look at Cora’s face and adds, “Are you reporting a crime?”

Derek thinks back. He’s heard Stiles mention Parrish several times. He seems like a good guy. “Yeah,” he says.

“Come on this way,” Parrish says, gesturing. Derek and Cora follow him around the corner. Cora scowls at the people giving them the side-eye, but Derek ignores them. Parrish ushers them into a couple of chairs beside his desk, then sits down and asks, “What happened?”

Cora glances at Derek, and he squeezes her hand. “A few guys from my school busted into my house to look for Derek. They wrecked some stuff and pushed me around.”

“Okay. Let me ask you some questions and then we’ll go check it out. Do you know who they were?”

“A couple of them, at least.” Cora tucks her hair behind her ear before giving Parrish their names. He asks more questions, about whether she ever said it was okay for them to come in or if they just pushed past her, about whether or not anyone was in the house, about how they had manhandled her, had they all done it or only one of them, had she fought back, what questions had they asked, what they had done when she refused to say anything. He’s thorough and meticulous and Derek finds himself glad that they decided to trust him. Then he gets in his Cruiser and follows him back to the Dominguez house.

Rosa Dominguez is in her sixties, short and a little chubby, friendly and warm under most circumstances. Derek pretends not to notice the way she makes a sign to ward away the evil eye when she thinks he’s not looking. “You called the police?” she asks Cora, clearly surprised.

“They broke into the house, señora,” Cora says, a little uncomfortable.

“You didn’t call while they were here, why call them later?”

“Ma’m,” Parrish says, very politely, “a crime was committed here, so I’m investigating. May I come in?”

Rosa frets, her hands tugging at the hem of her shirt. “I cleaned some things up.”

“That’s okay, ma’m. I just want to take a look around.”

“Oh, well. I suppose it’s all right.” She stands back to let them in. Although she has cleaned up some, it’s clear that the house was tossed pretty well.

“What, did they think I was hiding under the sofa?” Derek asks, exasperated.

“No, they were just tossing shit around for the sake of being assholes,” Cora says. “They were all exaggerated about it like the buttheads that they are.” She takes on a fake masculine voice. “‘Gee, I wonder if he’s in the linen closet,’” she says, with mock gesture of tossing items over her shoulder.

Parrish carefully catalogues the damages just as carefully as he took Cora’s statement. He asks Rosa’s permission to dust for prints, which she gives. He takes photographs of several of the things that are broken, and also takes some pictures of Cora’s injuries. “Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll go pick them up.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Derek says abruptly, while Parrish walks them back out to the car.

“Sure,” Parrish says.

“I know from Stiles that you were kind of on the fence about this whole ‘prosecuting people for harassment of PDSS’,” Derek says. “And it’s not that he thinks you’re not a good guy, I think that you’re just worried about public appearances and re-elections and stuff like that. So why are you going to make a big deal out of this, when you sided with Stiles over not prosecuting the vandalism charges?”

Parrish takes his gloves off and sticks them in his pockets. “Because they’re escalating,” he says. “We tried ignoring them in the hopes that they would stop. They didn’t. In fact, they’re getting more bold and more destructive. And I’m not as afraid of public backlash in this particular case. The perpetrators weren’t members of the HVF, and they targeted a living human, a minor, rather than a PDSS him or herself. Like in the case of the Lahey house fire, when living people are put in danger, the public is going to see these people as the dangerous vigilantes that they are, rather than the honorable HVF.”

Derek nods slowly. “And you need a win right now,” he says.

Parrish nods back and sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “We sure do.”

“Okay,” Derek says. “Thank you for your honesty.”

“You take care, Derek, Cora,” Parrish says, before getting back into his car.

Derek watches him go and then sighs, wrapping an arm around Cora’s shoulder and trying to ignore Rosa Dominguez in the window, watching him suspiciously. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go back to the house and watch a movie.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Ukiah isn’t quite as close as Redding, but it’s an enjoyable trip nonetheless. Stiles likes getting out of Beacon Hills, likes driving with the windows down and bellowing out Rolling Stones lyrics while his father chuckles in the driver’s seat. He likes stopping at a convenience store and jogging inside to get them both a coffee without getting a second look from anyone. His father even lets him drive part of the way, saying it’s about time he started learning, and these empty back roads are a good place.

He’s wearing his makeup and contacts for the trip, not for Allison. He’s not going to start wearing them at home, and he doesn’t much care what she thinks about that. He just hopes that she’s not a bitch. He can deal with her if she’s shy or scared or traumatized, but he doesn’t think he can handle anyone else in his life being mean to him.

“You wait here, I’ll go get the paperwork taken care of,” Tom says, heading inside. Stiles is glad that they aren’t at the Redding facility, glad that he doesn’t have to go back there. It strikes him as funny, since a few months ago he would have done anything to stay there. But it’s a bad memory now, a sour taste in his mouth. The thought makes him realize that, despite how much shit is still piled on, he’s actually feeling a lot better about everything.

He’s left sitting in what feels like a hospital waiting room while his father meets with the liaison and the doctor and the legal staff. He’s spoken to them on the phone, but they have to talk him through all the forms and get his signature on them. It takes about half an hour, and then he returns to wait with Stiles.

Five minutes later, an orderly guides Allison into the room. Stiles isn’t sure what to expect, but it certainly isn’t this – she’s _smiling_. It looks like a genuine smile, too, a little on the shy side as she ducks her head, but genuine nonetheless. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Allison.”

“Call me Tom,” his father greets her, extending a hand which she shakes without compunction. “This is my son, Stiles. He’s PDS, too.”

“Nice to meet you,” Allison says, smiling at him. “Thank you so much for taking me in. If I had to stay here much longer, I was going to be bored to a second death.”

“I know the feeling,” Stiles says.

Tom smiles too, looking between the two of them, clearly glad that they’re getting along. “Okay, let’s get moving,” he says.

They walk back to the car. She sees it’s the sheriff’s cruiser and says, “Oh, are you a police officer?”

“I’m the sheriff of Beacon Hills county,” he informs her, and then asks, “Would you rather ride up front? Or sit in the back with Stiles?”

“I’ll sit in the back,” she says, and Tom opens the door for her. “I’m sorry. My memory is really, really bad. In fact, if I actually knew you and you’re just not saying anything to be polite, just tell me now.”

Tom laughs a little as he puts the car in gear and pulls out of the parking lot. “To the best of my knowledge, we were not acquainted. Melissa – she’s the local liaison for PDSS – asked us if we could take you in since I already had Stiles, so I think she thought you’d get along. And I said sure, because what’s one more mouth to not feed?”

Both Allison and Stiles laugh at that. “I barely remember Beacon Hills at all,” she says. “I remember some of my childhood? But everything after the age of about twelve is blank, and that’s when we moved to Beacon Hills. So . . . I don’t know if I’ll remember it when I get there or not.”

“Well, you can take it as slow as you need to,” Tom says. “Reintegration has been a little tricky in Beacon Hills.”

Allison tucks her hair behind her ears. “Yeah, I’ve . . . heard that. Not about Beacon Hills specifically, but just in general.”

Tom nods and Stiles shoots him a look. Neither of them are sure how to handle Allison’s relationship with Chris in the long-term. Stiles thinks they have to tell her _something_ , particularly if she asks. But neither of them want to do anything that might put her in any danger, so they’re both on the fence about what to do.

“So what kind of stuff do you like to do?” Stiles asks her, to change the subject.

Allison likes gymnastics and archery, but she also loves girly stuff like shopping and makeovers. Stiles makes a mental note to introduce her to Lydia, stat. She admits that she loves Disney movies, obviously expecting to be made fun of, and grins when Stiles immediately responds with, “I’m a Disney Renaissance era fan myself, but there is some good stuff in the post- and neo- renaissance periods,” and they spend half the car drive arguing about whether or not Frozen was better than Tangled, and then the other half arguing over Pixar versus Dreamworks.

Tom drives them all the way into the garage and closes the garage door before he’ll let Allison get out of the car, but she doesn’t try to argue. Then he shows her inside and upstairs. “So, we sort of made this up for you,” he says, gesturing into the bedroom that had once been Stiles’. “We weren’t sure what sort of stuff you liked, so obviously we’ll need to get you some things. But they gave us your sizes, so we got you some clothes and obviously some toiletries and stuff.” If she wears her makeup, they can take her shopping a few towns over without it being a problem, they think.

Allison looks around and sees that they’ve put some books and knick-knacks on the shelves, tacked up a few posters of generic things like pretty scenery and cute animals. The window is partly open, letting in the summer breeze. It’s completely different from the cold, sterile rooms at the facilities. For the first time, her smile fades and a quick, stifled sob escapes her. “Thank you so much,” she says. “It’s perfect.”

“Well, I doubt that, we hadn’t even met you,” Tom teases gently, but he puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes, knowing she’ll feel the pressure if not the casual touch. “We’ll take you shopping tomorrow or the next day. Now, come on, it was a long drive. You two have been talking about those movies so much that now I need to see one or two. What do you say?”

Allison nods, blinking tears out of her eyes. “Okay.”

“Oh, one more thing,” Stiles says, snagging her wrist as his father heads downstairs. His eyes are burning and itching. He looks down and blinks the contacts out with what’s becoming a practiced skill. “I don’t usually wear all this stuff at home. You don’t have to either, if you don’t want. I mean, you can. No judgment either way.”

“It’s not the zombie stuff that bothers me, it’s . . .” Allison glances after the sheriff, but he’s giving them a few minutes of privacy. She reaches out and traces the ugly, stapled wounds on Stiles’ neck. “I don’t like looking at . . . mine. It makes me . . . sometimes it’s like I almost remember what happened to me, and I . . . I don’t want to remember.”

Since Stiles knows absolutely nothing of how she died beyond that it was a murder, but his imagination can conjure up a number of horrible things, he just nods and squeezes her hand. “Like I said. You do you. I just don’t like it because it’s nothing like my actual skin tone.”

“Oh, well, me neither,” Allison says, regaining some of her cheer. “I mean, I look like I overdosed on Tang. But I’ll take it.”

Stiles laughs and nods, then tugs on her hand. “Come on, those dragons aren’t going to train themselves.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter listens to the story of what had happened to Cora with a faint frown on his face. Cora is glowering at him, simply because she hates being in the same room as him. “Well, at least they’re actually going to be arrested and charged,” he finally says. “I suppose that will have to do, at least for now.”

“Yeah, like they’re the only ones,” Cora mutters.

“Point,” Peter says. He’s still frowning a little. “Cora, if anything like that happens again, just tell them where we are.”

“What?” Cora sputters. “I’m not going to do that. Not even to you.”

“I have an excellent security system set up around this place,” Peter says. “Nobody’s going to be getting in _or_ setting the place on fire. Trust me, I’ve done a lot of work to prevent history repeating itself. And I don’t want you to get hurt. Today it was just a few teenaged thugs. But they aren’t the only ones who might be interested in locating us, and some other people might have much more persuasive methods.”

Cora scoffs. “I’m not afraid of the HVF.”

“I’m not talking about the HVF, Cora,” Peter says.

“Then who are you talking about?” she demands.

“I’ll tell you when I figure it out,” Peter says, and with that, he stands and leaves the room.

Derek and Cora are left blinking at each other, until Cora finally says, “What in the hell is that supposed to mean,” and Derek is forced to admit that he has no idea.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shouts from a mountain top* ALLYDIA~~~

 

The first evening with Allison in their house is so calm and low-key that Stiles feels like she’s been there a long time. They can totally handle this. They watch a movie and then play board games and ask silly, icebreaker questions to get to know each other. Around nine thirty, Sheriff Stilinski turns in for the night. Allison and Stiles stay up for about another hour. He’s telling her about the classes he’s taking, and they wind up looking through the online high school’s catalogue and signing her up for some as well.

Allison doesn’t really have any career goals that she remembers, and Stiles’ – law enforcement – might prove impossible in light of his PDS status. So they bat around different ideas and laugh at silly suggestions and Stiles heads to his room feeling pretty okay about everything and glad to get the make-up off. “Wow, your room is tiny,” Allison says, peering over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It used to be a spare room and I had yours.”

Her eyes go a little wide. “You didn’t have to give up your room for me!”

“Oh, no, that’s not what happened,” he assures her hastily. “I didn’t want it, after – everything. It kind of freaked me out, the way it hadn’t changed. I stayed in this room ever since I got back from the facility.”

“Oh.” Allison relaxes. “Okay. Good night, then.”

“Night.” Stiles goes into his room and cleans up, takes the makeup off and undresses before flopping down onto the bed. He’s tense and edgy after the long day, even though it went well, and he decides to read a little before trying to sleep. Somewhere in there he passes out with the book flopped on his chest.

He wakes up to hear screaming.

He fumbles out of bed, tangled in the blankets and moving slowly. His father makes it into the hallway before him, and only in that moment does Stiles figure out what’s going on. He remembers Melissa mentioning that Allison had bad flashbacks and nightmares. After the smiling, optimistic girl he had met, it seems hard to reconcile. But when his father opens the door, Allison is thrashing around and screaming bloody murder.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Tom says, grabbing one of her flailing arms and trying to calm her down. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.”

She wakes abruptly and scrambles to get away from him, sobbing, “No, don’t, please, don’t hurt me, please,” in incoherent little bursts. Tom gets behind her and pins her arms to her chest, rocking her back and forth slowly. Stiles turns on the bedside lamp, hoping that the light might calm her down. He flinches away from what he sees. It’s not her pale skin that bothers him, but the inch thick band of dark bruises around her neck from where she was strangled.

Gradually, Allison calms down. Her sobs trail off into whimpers. Tom smoothes down her hair and continues to rock her. After about ten minutes have passed, she clears her throat and says, “I’m s-sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” Tom says firmly. “You want to get up for a bit?”

She swallows and nods. Tom helps her up; she’s shaky but vertical. They go down into the kitchen and Stiles makes his father some tea. Lydia has been very optimistic about tea, since it basically has no nutrients in it, but Stiles doesn’t want to try any experiments tonight.

They put on another movie and Allison finally falls asleep. Stiles covers her with a blanket and decides to sleep downstairs in case she has another nightmare. His father has to work; he needs to get his rest.

But the remainder of the night passes uneventfully, and they both wake up the next morning when Tom comes downstairs to make himself a quick breakfast. Allison goes back upstairs to apply her makeup and then get dressed. The jeans and blouse are a little saggy on her. “Sorry, we estimated up just in case,” Tom tells her.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Allison says.

“I’ve got some work to do,” Tom says. He frowns, hesitates, then says, “Why don’t I drop you two off at Derek’s? Some guys gave his sister a hard time, so he probably wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, always happy to see Derek. To Allison, he adds, “If that’s okay with you? Derek’s another PDS, along with his uncle, and he’s a really good friend of mine.”

“Okay,” Allison says. She frowns and smoothes down the shirt self-consciously. “They won’t give me a hard time about the makeup, will they?”

“No, of course not,” Stiles says. “Derek still wears his a lot of the time, and so does Isaac. Oh, Isaac is – it’s kind of a long story. I’ll tell you along the way.”

It takes most of the ride to tell her about the different people in the support group, and find a way to describe the fire that won’t send her running away screaming. In the end, he just doesn’t give it much detail. He says there was a fire, and that Peter had offered to let Camden and Isaac stay with them. Whatever conclusions she draws about the cause of the fire, she keeps to herself.

He calls Derek on the way over, belatedly asking if it’s okay for Allison to come. Derek says “sure” in that grudging tone which means he doesn’t like it, but can’t find a good reason to argue. Stiles chooses to interpret this as Derek wanting Stiles all to himself, a possibility that makes him glow inside despite the dubious veracity.

Cora’s there when they get there, playing video games with Derek. Isaac and Camden are both still sleeping. Stiles introduces them and says, “Whoa, my dad really meant it when he said some people gave you a hard time. What happened?”

Cora gives one of those annoyed huffs but gives them the bare bones of the story. Stiles is pretty excited to hear that for once people are being arrested for their crimes, but tries to keep it to himself. They join in the video games and just hang out for a little while. Allison doesn’t seem to be sure what to make of Cora, who’s standoffish even at the best of times and particularly mulish in the aftermath of the attack at her house.

At noon, she says she’s heading home, that she has to get lunch and she promised to help Rosa clean up around the house. Derek scowls after her as he leaves, but it’s his worried scowl, not his angry scowl. “Did you know that I can identify your different scowls now?” Stiles asks.

Derek blinks at him . . . and scowls. “What?”

“Like, right now, that’s your confused scowl,” Stiles says. “Just now you were scowling your worried scowl, which has an extra line between your eyebrows, but you also have an embarrassed scowl and an angry scowl and if I say scowl many more times it won’t sound like a word anymore.”

Derek studies him for a long minute, then proclaims, “You’re weird.”

“Says the guy with eight different scowls. Hey, how’s the painting coming?” To Allison, he adds, “Derek is an amazing artist.”

“What? No, I’m not,” Derek says automatically.

Allison giggles and says, “That must be the embarrassed scowl.”

“No!” Derek growls at them. “Ugh, never mind.”

Stiles smiles at him, open and happy despite everything, and Derek ducks his head and looks away. Stiles thinks that his life would be easier if they could blush. Sometimes he thinks that Lydia is right, that Derek actually likes him, but a blush reflex at moments like this would really help clear some things up. Derek, well, he puts up with him, and seems to genuinely like having him around. He actively asks Stiles to come over, and gets growly if Stiles can’t for some reason. But maybe he’s just lonely. Stiles isn’t sure, and he doesn’t know how to bring it up. “Seriously, though, can I see it?”

“No,” Derek says. “I don’t like people looking at my unfinished stuff. But you can come into the studio and show her some of the sketches if you want.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. They troop into the studio. Allison loves the atmosphere of the old farmhouse loft, with the bare wooden walls and huge windows that let sunlight stream in. She admires some of the paintings and then starts leafing through the sketchbooks.

While she’s occupied, Stiles takes a minute to call his father. “Hey, what’s happening with those guys who hassled Cora?” he asks.

The sheriff sounds smug. “Charged with unlawful entry, property damage, and assault.”

“So they’re actually going to be charged and punished and stuff?” Stiles asks.

“Yep. Whittemore doesn’t have the same incentive to protect them as he does former HVF members, and I told him that the public would crucify him for letting a bunch of hulking linebackers gang up on a sixteen-year-old girl who was only trying to protect her family, as ‘misguided as she might be’. His words, not mine.” Tom’s voice takes on a note of disgust for a minute, but then lightens up. “Because he’s up for re-election, he doesn’t want the negative press. He’ll toe the line this time.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says. “Hey, I was thinking – maybe one of them as the one who’s been leaving death threats? Since they obviously hate PDSS.”

“Not a bad thought, kiddo,” Tom says. “I’ll get a voice lineup for you and have you take a listen later.”

“Okay, cool,” Stiles says. He furtively tries to glance at the painting of himself and gets the angry scowl. “I’ll see you later, then,” he adds, and hangs up.

Allison is still leafing through the sketchbook as Stiles bobs and weaves around Derek, trying to unveil the painting in progress and get a look at it. He wouldn’t actually do it, since Derek asked him not to, but it’s fun to pretend-tug at the sheet and let Derek wrestle him away from it. Actually, it’s a little too much fun. He might not be able to get a boner, but he does get distinct fluttering feelings in his stomach when Derek is manhandling him.

“Oh my God!” Allison exclaims suddenly, holding up the sketchbook. It’s displaying the short-haired woman with a gun. “You drew my mother!”

Derek goes stiff instantly. “I – that’s your mother?”

“Yeah,” Allison says. “I’m so happy, I couldn’t quite picture her face and now I – can I have this?”

“You – ” Derek looks stricken. “I guess. If you want.”

“Did you know her?” Allison asks, carefully tearing the page out of the book.

Abruptly, Derek says, “I think I killed her.”

Allison goes still. “Oh,” she says. She swallows hard, taking a minute. “I – I knew she was dead. They told me that, at – the facility. That my mother had been killed during the Rising and my father wasn’t – wasn’t able to take me in because of, of injuries sustained or something like that. They weren’t really specific. But.” She lets out a breath and then smiles her usual smile, even though tears have leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I’m still really happy to have the sketch to remember her by.”

Derek is staring at her, confused and angry and grateful all at once. “You did hear me, right? The part where I ki – ” His voice breaks. “Where I killed her?”

After a moment, Allison looks down and blinks out her contacts. She looks up at Derek and says, “We’re all PDS here. We all killed people. I can’t be angry at you for that. Not when I did the same thing.”

Derek’s jaw clenches. Stiles reaches over and squeezes his forearm. Derek gives a little shudder, but then nods. “I – thanks.”

“I’m really glad that I don’t have much memory of what happened during the Rising,” Stiles says, after the silence sits for a minute. “It’s bad enough remembering how I died.”

“And I don’t even have that,” Allison says, with a faint laugh, one hand lingering at her neck.

Stiles can’t quite help the question. “Don’t you – kind of want to know? I mean – justice and all that?”

Allison looks away. “Yeah, I mean, it would be nice to know that the guy who did it is behind bars. But I just – I think forcing myself to remember it would make things even worse, you know? Mostly I just hope that he died. Some really horrible death. I hope rotters ate him.”

“That seems totally fair,” Stiles says, but he looks at the way her hand lingers at her throat, and he wonders.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Tom shows up at about six PM, bringing a pizza with him. Stiles glares at him while he eats it and talks loudly about his cholesterol while Tom updates Camden on the investigation they’re doing into the fire. Apparently some of the chemicals used were a little more rare than others, and they’re trying to see if they can track down who might have bought them.

Stiles is smart enough to know that this is a dead end, that whoever bought them was almost certainly smart enough to pay in cash, but it seems to mollify Camden somewhat. He eats more than his fair share of the pizza and gives his brother a hard time. Peter is there, making snarky comments, and on the whole everyone seems to have a good time.

Allison has another screaming nightmare that night, and Stiles hovers awkwardly in the doorway while Tom comforts her, tells her that she’s safe. She says, “please don’t hurt me, you promised” over and over again, and Stiles is thinking he’s put together some pieces of what happened to her. She obviously went along with her captor’s demands because he said he wouldn’t kill her, but then he did. That’s where his train of thought ends. He doesn’t think Allison would have been stupid enough to get in a car with a stranger, but he knows that everyone she knew was thoroughly investigated at the time of her disappearance. They hadn’t found anything then; how is he supposed to find something now?

But it’s something to focus on, something to do that _isn’t_ connected to the Rising and the HVF and the fire at the Lahey house, which his father won’t let him within a mile of. He wonders how to go about getting a copy of her file, and is still thinking about that after they finish watching Mulan in their pajamas.

Stiles sits down with some of his school work, and since Allison isn’t enrolled in any classes yet, she leans over his shoulder and tries to learn along with him. She gets bored quickly and winds up borrowing his laptop to play on the internet. He decides to show her the ‘selfie-with-the-walking-dead’ collection, and she scrolls through with great delight. “Did you take any of yourself?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah, here,” Stiles says, leaning over her to pull up his own page, where there’s one of him and Scott, him and his dad, him and Lydia, all with the hashtag.

“Oh, I know her!” Allison’s gaze lights up as she looks at the selfie that Stiles had taken with Lydia. “That’s Lydia. We were best friends.”

“Really?” Stiles asks, blinking. It hadn’t occurred to him, but now that he’s thinking about it, Allison and Lydia would have been about the same age, and since neither of them had gone to his high school, they must have gone to the other one together. “You want to see her? She comes over all the time. We’re BFFs.”

“Yeah!” Allison says, smiling broadly.

Stiles finds himself smiling in response. He pulls Lydia up and gives her a call. She picks up a few moments later and he says, “Hey, so, did you know an Allison Argent?”

He’s not expecting what happens, which is a clatter, a scuffle, and then a choked, “What?”

“Allison.” Stiles hadn’t really thought about it, had assumed that after three years or more had passed, that Allison would be maybe a sad memory. It occurs to him now that this probably isn’t the case. Allison’s body was never found, so there was always a chance that she was alive, and for someone as smart as Lydia, that must have been a torment. “Uh, she disappeared – ”

“I know who she is.” Lydia has regained her composure. “Why?”

“Uh, because she’s here. At my house. She’s PDS.”

Lydia makes a strangled little noise and says, “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” and then hangs up.

“Uh,” Stiles says, looking at his phone. “I think she remembers you.”

“Of course she does,” Allison says, with confidence. Stiles is, as usual, baffled by her serene optimism. He wonders if it’s because of her amnesia, or if it’s just because she was always like that.

After the phone call, he doesn’t know what he’s expecting when Lydia arrives. But she bursts through the door like a miniature tornado, hair done up in a hasty ponytail, dressed in a worn tank top and yoga pants, like she had been working out. Allison looks up and smiles as Lydia comes in. “Hi!”

“Alli,” Lydia chokes out, and throws herself at her friend. She clutches at her and breaks into harsh sobs. “Alli, Alli, Alli.”

Allison hugs her tightly, and Stiles is further surprised when Lydia starts pressing kisses into Allison’s face, on her forehead, cheeks, closed eyes. Allison just laughs and holds her closer. Stiles decides to go into the kitchen for a few minutes, since he’s clearly witnessing a pretty emotional reunion.

“So, uh,” he says, coming back into the room with a flavored water for Lydia about ten minutes later, to find them sitting on the sofa. “You two were, uh . . . a thing?”

“Huh?” Lydia says, blinking up at him, eyes red, face blotchy from crying. “Oh. I guess that wasn’t very subtle of me.”

Allison just laughs. “Apparently we were going to be,” she says, giving Lydia a teasing poke in the shoulder.

“If we’d had time,” Lydia says, pressing one hand against her mouth for a moment. “I had this whole plan. I had, you know, assessed all the different possible reactions. I made _charts_. There was science involved. And I decided the absolute best time to do something was after the winter dance. But then she . . .” Her face crumbles. “What happened?” she asks, starting to cry again. “Allison, what ha- ha-happened?”

“I don’t know,” Allison says. ‘I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t have to ap-pologize.” Lydia’s voice hitches, but she gets herself back under control. She wipes the tears off her face. “God, I must look – I’m going to go wash my face.” She gets off the sofa, trembling, and goes into the bathroom.

Stiles and Allison both watch her go somewhat pensively. “I have a girlfriend!” Allison says cheerfully.

Stiles laughs. “Yeah, apparently.”

Lydia emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, cleaned up, hair done in a neat braid, composed. She takes another drink of her water, then stands back and looks at Allison critically. “God, I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but that orange crap looks even worse on you than it does on Stiles. C’mon, I’m taking you to Sephora.”

“Okay,” Allison says, just as Stiles blurts out, “What, no!”

Both of them blink at him. Lydia sighs and says, “Stiles, I know that you’ve had a hard time with – ”

“Uh, that’s not the point,’ Stiles says. “Lydia. Come on. She’s Allison _Argent_. Does that last name ring bells for you?”

Lydia’s eyes narrow. “Of course it does. Are you telling me that – ”

“What?” Allison asks, interrupting her. “What’s going on?”

Stiles is torn. He knows he’s not really supposed to talk about this stuff with Allison. He doesn’t want to upset her. At the same time, he thinks she deserves to know, and he doesn’t want her running off to Sephora and putting herself in danger. “Okay, uh . . . how much do you know about the HVF, Allison?”

“That’s the volunteer force, right?” Allison asks. “They fought the PDSS when we were rabid.”

“Right,” Stiles says. “Well. In Beacon Hills, your dad was kind of in charge of it.”

“That sounds like what I remember of him,” Allison says. “But so what?”

“Well, by ‘was’ I kind of mean ‘is’.”

“Are you about to say that he doesn’t know Allison is back?” Lydia asks, her voice rimmed with frost. “Does he even know she’s PDS?”

“No, and yes,” Stiles says. “Look, uh . . . Allison, I’m sorry, but, when they called your dad to let him know you had been found, he didn’t want . . . he found out you were PDS and he doesn’t . . . he doesn’t believe it’s really you.”

Allison frowns. “Who else would I be?”

Lydia sighs. “There’s this whole theory that you guys are just walking corpses and your . . . souls have moved on, I guess.”

“That’s stupid,” Allison says dismissively. “I’m going to go see him.”

“Allison, you can’t,” Stiles says. “Look, you don’t understand – you haven’t seen him – ”

“He’s my father,” Allison says. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Yeah, well, you should be,” Stiles snaps. “I watched him nearly shoot an innocent man in cold blood in the middle of the street.”

“Nearly. That means he didn’t.”

“Only because my dad threatened to shoot him if he did,” Stiles says. “He would have.”

“You don’t know that,” Allison snaps back.

“Yes I do,” Stiles says. “Because I was there. You weren’t. He’s _dangerous_.”

Lydia speaks up quietly. “But Stiles, if he finds out we’re hiding Allison here, that we conspired to keep it from him – it’s only going to make things worse. Much worse.”

Stiles grimaces. He knows that Lydia is right. “It’s not like he doesn’t know anything. I mean, he knows she’s PDS, that she’s been released from the facility . . .” He pauses as he realizes that he _doesn’t_ know that, not for sure. He doesn’t know what Chris was told after he refused to take custody of Allison. He might think she was still in the facility.

“I’m going to go see him,” Allison repeats.

“Okay, but we’re re-doing your makeup first,” Lydia says firmly. “We can stop at my place.”

“And I’m calling my dad so there can be an armed guard present for when your dad inevitably flips his shit,” Stiles says.

Sheriff Stilinski, predictably, is not a huge fan of these developments. Stiles spends the entire car ride to Lydia’s on the phone with him, trying to convince him not to send a platoon of deputies down to put Allison in protective custody. “Look, Dad, this is going to happen sooner rather than later,” he says. “All we can do is try to, to control the ensuing explosion.”

“Fine,” Tom says through grit teeth. “I’ll meet you down at the – ”

“Christ, no,” Stiles says. “Chris _hates_ you; you being there will only make things worse. Send Parrish.”

“I’ll see if he’s okay with that,” Tom says, and hangs up. Stiles gives it a fifty percent chance that Tom is going to show up anyway. He sighs and starts slapping makeup on his face. Don’t fan the flames, he tells himself. Just stay in the background.

Lydia changes clothes and redoes her hair, and she and Allison redo her makeup. Once the orange crap is washed off, Lydia sees the dark ring of bruises around her neck, the marks her murderer left, and starts to cry again. It takes a little while to calm her back down. Then she starts to gather some things she says she needs to bring. All told, it’s nearly an hour before they’re ready to go.

“Where are we going?” Allison asks, as Lydia doesn’t take the turn she obviously expected.

“The tavern,” Lydia says. “He’s always there this time of day, unless he’s out on patrol.”

“Why is he still going on patrol?” Allison asks.

Lydia glances at her and says, “To be perfectly fair, there _are_ still rabid PDSS in the surrounding woods. Attacks are rare, but they do happen.”

“Oh,” Allison says.

When they get to the tavern, Stiles is relieved to see Parrish sitting at the bar, having a drink. The sheriff is nowhere to be seen. Chris is at his usual table with three others; Stiles sees Vernon Boyd the younger, as well as Mike Whittemore. He wishes Scott was there, if only for moral support.

As soon as they walk in, the room goes silent. Everyone is just staring at Stiles. He’s been out and about, sure, but nobody was expecting him at the informal HVF headquarters. They’re so focused on him that they don’t even notice Allison, although Stiles supposes that they might not know who she is. When the silence draws Chris’ attention, he glances over his shoulder, sees them, and goes perfectly still.

Allison steps forward, into the empty space between the door and the table where Chris is sitting with his friends. “Hi, Dad,” she says.

“Allison,” Chris chokes out, and for a minute Stiles actually thinks that things might be all right.

Since he seems frozen in place, Allison walks over to him. “Hey,” she says quietly. “Dad, I’m home.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia: like a BOSS.
> 
> Also I made up a bunch of pseudo-science gibberish about PDSS because hey, why not?

 

Chris slowly stands. He’s trembling, and he reaches out to touch her cheek. He rubs his thumb over her cheekbone, and some of the makeup comes off into his hand. His face twists in agony. “No,” he grits out. “I won’t – won’t believe it. You’re not my daughter. Get out.”

“Dad, look, I know that it’s been really hard for you, but you don’t – ”

“Get out!” Chris shouts. “You’re not her, how dare you come to me like this? Get out of my sight!”

There’s a loud noise as Lydia slams a stack of books down onto one of the tables. Several people jump. Chris’ hand drops to the butt of his gun. So does Parrish’s. Then they realize what happened. “Well,” Lydia says, “now that I’ve got your attention. We’re going to have a science lesson.”

“We – what?” one of the men asks.

“You people say you don’t believe the government propaganda,” Lydia says. “Well, I’m not the government. I’m a resident of Beacon Hills who lost her leg to a rotter, and who happens to have a bachelor’s degree in neurochemistry. And I’m going to explain what causes PDS to you, so you can all understand why your behavior is unacceptable.”

“Lydia,” Chris growls.

“No,” Lydia says, and points at him. “You too, Captain Argent. Sit your ass down. You kept the town safe. We all appreciate what you did. But I nearly died. I gave up my literal pound of flesh. If I can look at your daughter and love her just as much as the day she disappeared, you can damn well do the same. You owe her ten minutes of your time, if nothing else.”

Chris slowly sinks into his chair. He doesn’t seem to know what else to do. “Ten minutes.”

“Another round, Sally,” Parrish says, and the bartender starts distributing glasses.

“So,” Lydia says, opening the first of her folders and taking out a diagram. “PDS originates with a bacteria that took up residence in deceased bodies. The bacteria fed off the formaldehyde in preserved bodies, and then began to generate electrical impulses. This stimulated the autonomic nervous system. That’s the involuntary part of the nervous system. The more of the bacteria there were, the more physical function the bodies regained, up until the point where some limited consciousness returned to them.

“Unfortunately, the bodies couldn’t sustain themselves. They weren’t able to generate the neurotransmitters that the brain needs to function. This is why the PDSS began to eat the brain tissue of others. Animals sometimes, but mainly humans, because they provided the correct balance of chemicals. So a rabid PDSS is basically a body with limited consciousness, that is starving to death.”

She flips to a picture of the brain. “The only part of the brain that functioned in rabid PDSS was the brainstem and the hypothalamus. The hypothalamus is famous for the four Fs. Fight, flight, feed, fuck.” She delivers this crude statement in a matter-of-fact way that has several of the men glancing at each other as if asking if she’s allowed to say that. “Even that function was severely limited, in that they really only had fight, feed, and a _very_ limited amount of flight. Which any HVF veteran will know, as they were easily able to kill rotters because they didn’t retreat even when clearly in danger.

“This is the amygdala.” She turns another page. “This is the part of the brain that controls emotional response. It’s part of the limbic system. When fMRIs – that is brain imaging while a person is awake and asked to perform certain actions – are done on rotters, the limbic system is _completely_ dark. There is no action there at all. That means that rotters are physically incapable of feeling any sort of emotion, accessing past memories, or forming new ones.

“Likewise, almost all of the cerebral cortex – the areas that process language, for example – has very limited function. I have seen these MRIs, gentlemen. I am not relying on the government to provide me information. I have witnessed them, and I know how to interpret them. Untreated PDSS are literally incapable of feeling empathy, or fear, or guilt.”

“Then why – ” someone shouts.

“These pictures are a series of fMRIs done on a PDSS in the early stages of treatment,” Lydia says, displaying another set of pictures. “You see, in the beginning, there’s only some dim light in the areas around the brainstem. Then this is after one week of treatment, then two weeks, one month, two months, six months. See how the rest of the brain is becoming active over time? Neurotriptyline is a medication that stimulates the brain to begin producing neurotransmitters again, the same neurotransmitters that the untreated PDSS were getting by eating the brains of others.

“So the PDSS are no longer starving. They have regained their cognitive function. Their amydalas have turned back on and their hippocampus is rebuilding their memories. Therefore, by all scientific evidence, they are no danger to anyone, and they cannot be held responsible for their actions.”

“Oh, they can’t?” a man sneers.

Lydia spears him with an icy look. “Mr. Whittemore. You’re the district attorney. If I were to administer a drug to Mr. Boyd here, without his consent, and it made him violent and he hurt somebody, would he be prosecuted for that?”

Whittemore shifts. “No. But – ”

“If someone with a degenerative illness such as Alzheimer’s got confused and attacked someone in their home because they thought it was a robber, not recognizing their own family, would they be prosecuted for that?”

“No, but it isn’t the – ”

“If I held you captive in my basement until you were dying of thirst and you killed me in your efforts to escape, do you think a jury would hold you responsible for that?”

“I don’t – ”

“No? Good. Then I’ve proven my point.” Lydia flips her page. “One last image I would like to leave you with. These are fMRIs done of PDSS just before discharge. Rather uniform. This section here,” she taps part of the picture, “is the part of the brain where we see the emotions of sadness, fear, and shame. Do you see how it’s lit up all red? In every single one? You don’t need to worry about blaming the PDSS for their actions in their untreated state. They’re doing a nice job all on their own.”

She slaps the book shut. “Any questions?”

A woman in the back of the bar raises her hand. “Are the bacteria still there?”

“Yes,” Lydia says. “In most cases, they’ve set up self-sustaining colonies in the brain. But that doesn’t mean that the rabid state will reoccur, as long as the patient gets their medication. In any case, we all have bacteria living inside us. The yogurt you see Chris eating every day, for example, is good for us precisely because it’s full of helpful bacteria.”

Vernon Boyd, the younger, clears his throat. “Where did the bacteria come from?”

“The general scientific consensus is that it’s a mutated form of E. Coli, that the PDSS came into contact with shortly before their death. That would explain the localized outbreaks.”

“So it could happen again,” Sally, the bartender, says.

“It does remain a possibility, yes, which is why all cemeteries in the country are now carefully monitored with surveillance cameras.”

“So the whole E. Coli thing, and the formeldahyde – is that why not everyone who died came back?” Stiles asks.

“Well, there are a number of reasons for that,” Lydia says. “There are probably some people who didn’t come back because their bodies were simply too damaged. Someone who had been shot in the head, for example, wouldn’t have had the brainstem to return function to. But yes, those are probably other reasons.”

 “Why can’t the brain start making its own neurochemicals again?” Boyd asks.

“I read somewhere that brain cells can’t grow back,” someone else says.

“That’s actually not true,” Lydia says. “Neurons can and do regenerate. But we’re not talking about neurons; we’re talking about neurotransmitters. That’s what transmits – hence the name – electrical signal from neuron to neuron. They’re typically amino acids, proteins. We get those in our diet and synthesize them into neurotransmitters. So if our digestive system isn’t working – and in PDSS it does not – then we can’t make neurotransmitters and therefore they have to stimulate their synthesis with neurotriptyline.”

“Wait, wait,” Stiles blurts out. “That means – all these experiments you’ve had me puking my guts out for – you’re looking for a _cure_?”

“No,” Lydia says. “Not precisely. If you could eat normally again, it’s _possible_ that you wouldn’t need neurotriptyline but I’m not at all prepared to promise that. It might be a _prevention_. As in, if someone came back from death in an untreated state of PDSS, we might be able to circumvent their need for neurotriptyline. But even that’s stretching things. Just because you’d be able to ingest the proteins without being sick doesn’t necessarily mean you would be able to break them down and synthesize the neurotransmitters properly.” To Boyd, she says, “But the answer to your question is, the human body needs certain things to be able to produce neurotransmitters, and PDSS don’t get them.”

“That makes sense,” he says, nodding.

When everything’s quite for a minute, Chris looks up with his jaw tightly clenched. “Are you done?” he asks Lydia.

“I am,” Lydia says.

“Good.” Chris stands up and turns to go.

“Dad, wait,” Allison says, grabbing him by the forearm.

He twists out of her grip with a look of revulsion. “Don’t you – don’t you _touch_ me,” he spits out, his voice shaking. “Don’t you ever come near me again. You’re an _abomination_.”

Allison reels back from him, shock on her face. “D-Daddy, I – ” she stutters, but Chris is already walking out of the tavern, shoving a chair onto the floor on the way by.

“Son of a bitch,” Lydia mutters wearily.

“I – ” Allison’s face screws up like she’s about to burst into tears. Lydia puts an arm around her waist and pulls her into a hug, rubbing her back. The rest of the tavern’s patrons sit awkwardly, avoiding looking at any of them.

Stiles really, really wishes he could go have a drink at that moment, but it obviously won’t be helping. He does exchange a quick glance with Parrish, before he says, “C’mon, Allison. Let’s go home, okay?”

Allison presses her lips tightly together, obviously trying to stay composed while in public. Then she nods, and Stiles and Lydia come up on either side of her and hustle her out of the tavern.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Nobody wants to let Allison dwell on what just happened, and Lydia is especially annoyed because she just wants to spend the evening cuddling with her now-girlfriend, and she doesn’t want Allison to be depressed. “We’re going out,” she declares. Allison just looks up at her with sad Bambi eyes. “Yes, you too. Stiles, get on the phone. Invite Scott and Kira. Invite Derek. Tell him not to wear his makeup. We’re going out, because I’m done with this.”

“Ohhhhh-kay,” Stiles says, because he’s positive that arguing with Lydia about this is going to get him absolutely nowhere. “Where should I tell them we’re going?”

Lydia glances at her watch. It’s about five PM. “First we’re going out for pizza, and then we’re going clubbing.”

“I don’t own any clothes that could be considered clubbing clothes, and I’m extra sure that Derek doesn’t,” Stiles says.

Lydia smiles a tight smile at him and says, “Tell him to wear one of those V-necks and he could get into any club in the city.”

“Good thing, since there’s only one,” Stiles says, but he’s really not in the mood to argue, so he goes up to his room. He calls Scott and tells him to pick up Kira and meet them at the pizza place. He takes off his makeup and puts on his ‘support single moms’ stripper T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The collar of it is loose and the scars on his neck stand out in lurid detail. He sighs and calls Derek. “Hey, so, we’re going out, wanna join us?” he asks.

“Out where?” Derek asks.

“Uh, Lydia wants to go clubbing,” Stiles says.

“Clubbing,” Derek repeats.

“Yeah,” Stiles says.

“Can you picture me clubbing?”

Stiles can, actually. It’s a rather appealing picture. He thinks of Derek moving his body to a heavy bass beat, to the look on his face while he’s lost in the music, unselfconscious, like when he’s painting. “Look, she just wants to get Allison’s mind off the fact that her father called her an abomination to her face.”

Derek sighs heavily. “Fine,” he says. “Can Cora come, too? Otherwise you’d have to pick me up.”

“Sure. The more, the merrier. Bring Isaac if he wants to come.” Stiles clears his throat. “Makeup optional.”

“Lydia’s on a real tear, huh,” Derek says dryly.

“Oh yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

Stiles hangs up and does a fist-pump of success before heading back to the other room. Lydia is rooting through her wardrobe to find clothes for both her and Allison. She’s clearly in some sort of fashion frenzy. Allison is trying to look enthusiastic, which isn’t working at all. “Here, try this on,” Lydia says, tossing a dress at her.

“Okay,” Allison says, and Stiles dutifully turns around to face the wall. “I don’t know, do you have tights that fit? I don’t want to have to wear the makeup all over my legs.”

“You don’t have to wear the makeup at all,” Lydia says firmly. “You look great in that dress.” She’s flinging off her own clothes in a complete lack of modesty and tugs on a skirt and blouse combo that, of course, looks amazing on her.

Allison is blinking. “What happened to your leg?” she asks.

“Hm? Oh,” Lydia says, and points at Stiles. “He tried to eat it.”

Allison looks up at Stiles, who shrugs. “I was hungry?”

Despite everything that’s happened in the last few hours, Allison laughs at that. Stiles slings an arm around her shoulders and says, “C’mon, we’ll tell you the whole story.”

They meet Scott and Kira at the pizza parlor, and grab a table. The waitress gawks, and Lydia greets her with a pleasant smile and says, “You should know that I believe very strongly in good tips for understanding staff,” and she stops gawking in record time. She brings them all drinks. Stiles asks for a small Dr. Pepper and groans about having to wait the ten minutes after the enzymes before he can drink it.

They order pizza for those who can eat, and tell Allison everything. Scott and Kira fill in some of the blanks, tell her about the way Chris led the HVF, the way he spent all of his own money, the way he saved Beacon Hills from almost certain ruin. She listens avidly to these stories.

Stiles tells her about his experiences with early reintegration and the way the public has slowly been growing more accepting of him. By the time he’s done with that, the pizza is at their table and Derek has arrived with both Cora and Isaac. Now their table is getting open stares from everyone who comes in. Four people with PDSS and four people without, sitting and sharing a meal, is quite a sight to be seen in Beacon Hills.

Some people hastily leave the diner, or turn around as soon as they come in, but other people stay, and any time anyone even breathes in their direction, Lydia just gives them a ‘would you like to make something of it’ stare which frightens them away.

“The thing is, your dad actually _has_ been getting better about the whole PDSS thing,” Isaac says, watching enviously as Stiles sips his Dr. Pepper and moans in bliss. It turns out that some of his taste buds still work pretty well. “Like, when he found out about Garrett Meyers, he nearly killed him. But when he figured out that I was back, he went over and talked to Cam. And, you know, I think he _would_ have killed me, if Camden hadn’t been there, and if he and Cam hadn’t fought together during the Rising. But they did. And Cam said that more than anything, Captain Argent just seemed really conflicted about the whole thing. Like maybe he knew he was wrong but couldn’t figure out how to admit it.”

“I can see how that would be tough,” Stiles agrees.

“Especially for someone like Chris,” Kira says quietly. “I mean, he _couldn’t_ afford to show fear or doubt when he was leading the HVF. We depended on him. He was the man with the plan, the one who knew what to do when the rest of us were floundering,” she continues, and Scott is nodding along with her. “And he was the one who made the decision that we shouldn’t – shouldn’t waste efforts to capture instead of kill. That’s got to be weighing on him. But it was a matter of resources. We just didn’t have them.”

“Yeah. I mean.” Scott swallows a little, looking around the table. “It’s one thing to say ‘these people can be saved’ and another to find a ro – a PDSS actively attacking someone and you have to stop and assess, ‘how can I get them off her without hurting someone, how can I subdue them without risking my own life or the life of my teammates’, especially when we didn’t really have the equipment for it. I killed PDSS after the announcement about neurotriptyline was made. We all did.”

“It’s okay, Scott,” Stiles says, reaching out and squeezing his wrist. “We understand.” He glances around the table and is satisfied to see all the others nodding.

“Anyway, Cam thinks that this whole movement against believing that the PDSS are really people is a self-defense mechanism,” Isaac says. “And he says that when he brought it up to Captain Argent, it really – flustered him. I mean, inasmuch as a guy like that gets flustered. But he agreed that he wouldn’t come after me, as long as Cam kept me ‘under control’ or whatever.”

Lydia nods and reaches out to rub slow circles in Allison’s back. “It’ll get better, Allison. We’ll give him some time, and some space. No matter what else, your father loves you. He _adores_ you. Give him some time and he’ll remember that.”

Allison nods and manages a wan smile. “I guess he must have – had a hard time of it,” she says.

“Yeah,” Lydia says. “We all did. When you disappeared, it was like . . .” Her voice trails off. “It was like nothing mattered for a really long time.”

“So you two are a thing?” Kira asks, and claps. “That’s so cute! Girl power!”

Stiles eyes Lydia curiously. “So when you said you didn’t want a relationship with Jackson ‘for a lot of reasons’ . . .”

Lydia gives him a look. “Bisexuality. Look it up.”

“I don’t have to look it up; I experience it on a daily basis,” Stiles says cheerfully, sneaking a sidelong look at Derek afterwards, who devotes his attention to the sketch he’s doing on his napkin. “But I was just curious.”

“I don’t want to have a relationship with Jackson because he’s an asshole,” Lydia says. “But there was a time, after Allison disappeared, that I thought . . . if I really threw myself into all that, into being Jackson’s girlfriend and prom queen and Little Miss Popular . . . maybe it would fill the hole she left behind.” She shakes her head. “It didn’t even come close.”

“Hey, though, even your dad is kind of being a dick about things,” Isaac says, “this could be really good in the long run. I mean, if we can get him to come around, then the election won’t be as big a deal.”

“Well, we’ve got two months to work it out,” Lydia says. She thinks it over for a long minute, then gives a decisive nod. “Allison, I think you should write him letters. Let’s not push him too hard. But write him a letter about how much you miss him, and how you’re settling into Beacon Hills, et cetera.”

“How I’ve got the best girlfriend,” Allison says, with a shy smile.

Lydia tosses her hair and says, “Obviously.”

Several of the others laugh. Scott says, “If you write them, I can make sure he gets them. I still see him pretty often.”

“Okay,” Allison says. “Yeah, okay.”

Lydia leans over and presses her forehead against Allison’s, closes her eyes for a long minute, just basking in her presence. Then she pulls away and says, “Let’s go dancing.”

They pay for their pizza and head downtown. The bouncer takes one look at them and says, “Nope, nuh uh, no way.”

Lydia folds her arms over her chest and gives him her best haughty stare. “We have every right to be here.”

“Sure you do,” the bouncer says amicably. “But you go in there, there’s gonna be a riot. That place is too small to accommodate a bunch of PDSS and a bunch of people who are still half convinced that if you breathe in their direction, they’ll catch it. If even one person panics, there’ll be a stampede, and people will get hurt.” His voice takes on some actual sympathy. “Look, guys, it’s a safety issue. Try again in a few months.”

It looks like Lydia might still argue, but Stiles comes up and puts a hand on her arm. “He’s right, we can’t risk a panic in a crowded club.”

Lydia mutters something about idiots, then agrees with a huff. “Let’s try Jungle.”

“Isn’t that a gay club?” Scott asks.

“Yes, so maybe they’ll be a little less likely to discriminate.” Lydia shoots a dirty look at the bouncer, who’s unfazed. Nobody really has a problem going to Jungle, and Lydia is clearly hellbent on getting them to a club, so they drive over. This time the bouncer gives them a strange look and says something about not wanting trouble, but he lets them in.

Stiles doesn’t think they’re going to have a problem. The lighting in the club is so blue and flashy that he doubts anyone will even notice their pale skin. Lydia pulls Allison onto the dance floor, plasters herself to the other girl, and starts moving to the beat. Kira turns to Scott with a smile and says, “c’mon, let’s dance,” and then tugs him onto the dance floor.

Isaac shakes his head and looks at Derek. “Why are we here?”

Derek shrugs, sits on a barstool, and starts sketching. Cora rolls her eyes at both of them and orders a drink.

“Well, I’m going to go dance,” Stiles says, makes his way onto the dance floor, and proceeds to make an idiot of himself. He’s never been good at dancing, but enjoys it nonetheless. He grooves and jives and acts like he knows what he’s doing. Nobody at the club seems to have a problem with him being there. He tries to glance at Derek once or twice to see if Derek’s watching him, but can’t get a glimpse of him through the crowds.

When he decides to take a break, however, he sees that Derek has been sketching him. “Having fun?” he asks.

“What? No,” Derek says, scowling at him. “I’d rather be at home.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, laughing. “Come on. This is the first time you’ve been out since, you know, everything. Don’t tell me that you’re not having a _little_ bit of fun. Can I see your sketches?”

Derek sighs and shoves the book at him. “It’s hard to draw you when you move so fast.”

“It’s called dancing,” Stiles tells him. Most of the sketches are pretty rough, but he likes them anyway. “C’mon, come dance. Just one dance.”

“You want me to dance with you?” Derek is looking at him with some unfathomable expression.

“Yes?” Stiles tries.

Derek scowls. “Fine.”

Stiles does a not-at-all subtle fist pump and is within milliseconds of grabbing him by the hand and dragging him out onto the floor when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It has to be his father, since literally everyone else he knows is at the club with him, so he grabs it. “Shit, hang on,” he says, since all the text from Tom says is, ‘Where are you? Call me.’

“What is it?” Derek asks, leaning close to be heard.

Stiles gestures for him to follow him out into the dim little hallway that leads into the club, and calls his father. “What’s up, Dad?” he asks.

His father doesn’t ask where he is. Instead he just says, “Stiles, you need to get home. There’s been another fire.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	16. Chapter 16

 

The group of them wind up sitting around Stiles’ living room, waiting anxiously for some sort of news. Tom hadn’t had many details when he had called Stiles, and nobody wants to bother him when he’s obviously got a lot to do. Stiles puts on a movie to try to distract them, but it doesn’t really work. He mostly just paces around.

Tom gets home at quarter after eleven, looks at the group of anxious teenagers, and sighs. He pulls Stiles into a one-armed hug and says, “First things first: no casualties.” Some of the tension goes out of the room. “It happened at the Reyes house. Erica had to jump out a window to get to safety and she broke a few bones, but she’s going to be okay. Everyone else is fine.”

“Is it arson? Do we know? I mean, it has to be arson, right?” Stiles says.

Tom sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “Yes, it’s definitively arson. Not even remotely subtle this time. They put a line of gasoline around the house and on some of the walls, and lit it up.”

“Did anybody see anything?” Derek asks, looking up at the sheriff.

“No. It was around the dinner hour, and everyone was busy with their own things.” Tom gives another sigh. “On the one hand, Chris Argent is definitely not a suspect. He was at the tavern drinking, and six different people vouched for him, at least two of whom I actually trust. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s still at the tavern drinking, but that’s a separate issue.” He reaches out and gives Allison a hug as well. “Less fortunately, Jackson Whittemore is ruled out too, because he was on a date at a restaurant and they have him on security cam.”

“That fucker,” Scott mutters.

“How did they know about Erica?” Kira asks.

Sheriff Stilinski sighs and shrugs. “Probably the same way Chris Argent found out about Garrett Meyers. There _are_ people who know which PDSS have been discharged from the facilities and sent home. Some of them are probably susceptible to bribes. Without knowing who did it, it’d be hard to find out exactly how they knew.”

“How bad is the damage?” Derek wants to know.

Tom shakes his head. “The house is a total loss. You might get another houseguest, Derek. Erica’s family is talking about staying with an aunt, who won’t have PDSS in the house.”

Stiles looks at Derek and asks, “D’you think that’s why Peter got such a big place? Because he knew something like this might happen?”

“I really doubt my uncle had any intention of running a halfway house for PDSS,” Cora says dryly.

Derek glances over at her and his lips quirk into a little smile. “Cora’s right. Peter only got such a big house because he wanted a place that didn’t have any close neighbors, on the outskirts of town. Once you get that far away from the center of town, _all_ the houses are that big. He said he wanted to be sure I had room for a studio, but it was really more coincidental than anything else.”

“Regardless,” Tom says, “I spoke to him about a half hour ago and he said he’s happy to let Erica stay with you for a week or two while her parents find alternative arrangements.”

“Where is she now?” Isaac asks.

“She’s at the hospital. They have to, uh . . .” Tom frowns and looks at Lydia. “I’m not sure what they’re doing. Her hip and her arm were both broken.”

“They’ll wire the bones back together,” Lydia says, “since they won’t heal on their own.”

“Can we go see her?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t want any of you out tonight,” Tom says. “Parrish is with Erica at the hospital and he’s going to drive her out to the farmhouse when she’s discharged. You can go out there to meet her if you promise you’ll stay there, or you can stay here. Those are your two options, bucko.”

Stiles makes a face, but he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t exactly want to get set on fire, so he looks at Derek and says, “Slumber party?”

“If you insist,” Derek says, with grumpiness that is probably fake.

Scott, Lydia, and Cora all have cars, so they pile in and head out to the farmhouse. Peter is still up, and he greets them with his usual level of aplomb, although Stiles thinks he looks somewhat troubled. While the others are dragging sleeping bags and sofa cushions into a pile in Derek’s studio, Stiles pulls him aside. “Hey, uh, Peter. Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, Stiles,” Peter says, with that smile he sometimes uses which makes Stiles nervous.

“So, Derek said you used to kind of be a fixer, and you clearly still have a lot of the same contacts you did before, you know, dying and all. And I was wondering if you could help me get something.”

Peter tilts his head to one side and says, “Now I’m curious. What is it?”

“Allison’s case file. She was murdered, you know, and I just kind of want to . . . look into it. It’s not like I have a lot else to do.”

“Certainly,” Peter says.

Stiles waits, then blinks. “That’s it? You can just . . . do that?”

“It’ll be in cold cases by now, which are fairly easily accessible,” Peter says. “Of course, it’ll cost some money to bribe the appropriate person, but money is something I have plenty of, so it isn’t a big deal.”

Stiles is still waiting. “Ohhhhh-kay. What’s the catch?”

Peter gives him an amused look. “I’m not allowed to just do you a favor?”

Stiles thinks about it. “Well, you’re _allowed_ to, but somehow I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.”

“So, maybe someday I’ll ask you for a favor,” Peter says.

“Can’t I know what it is ahead of time?” Stiles asks. “Before I agree to this?”

Peter laughs at him. “Welcome to the world of a fixer,” he says, and walks away, leaving Stiles wondering whether or not he just made a deal with the devil.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It’s just past eleven, and Melissa has just finished setting the timer on the coffee maker, when there’s a knock on her front door. It’s a hard, jagged, arrhythmic knock. She frowns and walks over, dressed only in her bathrobe, to glance through the peephole and see Chris Argent standing there. He’s leaning one arm against the door frame to prop himself up.

Surprised and a little wary, Melissa eases the door open, wondering if this is a stupid idea. “Chris, are you okay?”

He looks up at her with swollen, red-rimmed eyes and slurs out, “I killed my wife.”

Out of all the possible responses Melissa had been expecting, that wasn’t one of them. She’s so startled that all she does is blink and say, “What?”

“I had to. I thought she’d be one of them. That’s what we all thought back then.” A shudder wracks through Chris’ body, and he presses one hand against his face. “We can’t have been wrong. Can’t. We can’t.”

“Come inside,” Melissa decides, standing back from the door to let him in. He staggers as soon as he lets go of the door frame, and she hustles him inside. She can smell the alcohol now that he’s closer. It’s obvious from his gait and his slurred voice that he’s way beyond drunk. “Here, come sit down with me.”

“I had to,” Chris repeats, as she ushers him over to the sofa. “She got bitten. Arm was a mess. She told me to. I didn’t want to. But she told me to. She put the gun in my hand and she told me to.” Another harsh sob wracks him, and Melissa just puts her arms around him and holds him. He presses his face into her shoulder and lets everything go, one hand gripping her arm so tightly that it’s going to bruise.

Gradually, he wears himself out. She thinks the worst of it is over, that he’s just too exhausted to cry anymore. “Let me get you some water, okay?” she asks, and he nods. She goes and fills a glass, then sits down with him again. He takes little sips, the occasional shudder still going through him. She sits beside him and rubs one hand over his back in slow circles.

After what seems like a small eternity, he looks up at her, face creased and tear-soaked. “If any . . . if any of this is true . . . I killed my wife for no reason.”

“No, Chris, God no,” Melissa says, squeezing his hand. “You killed her because, with the information you had at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. It isn’t your fault that you didn’t know any better.” She squeezes him tighter. “It _isn’t_. She would have done the same for you. _I_ would have done the same for you. That’s just what we thought at the time.”

Chris wipes a shaking hand over his face. He says nothing.

“The lack of information you had wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. And most legends and myths have at least some grounding in reality, so we all had decent reason to think that that was how zombies were made. Victoria isn’t the only person who died for that reason. There were plenty of other people.”

“She told me to,” Chris mumbles again, exhausted. “She was so . . . matter-of-fact about it. She put the gun in my hand. She said ‘you have to do it, before I become one of them’. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to.”

Melissa keeps rubbing circles on his back. “Look, back when you were in the military, I’m sure missions went bad sometimes because your intelligence didn’t turn out to be correct. That sort of thing happens, right?”

Chris nods. “One time, it was a – a standard rescue op, but – the guy wasn’t where we thought he’d be in the building. They killed him before we could get to him.”

“Did you blame yourself for that?” Melissa asks, knowing the answer is no.

“No. We – I reamed out the guy who told us the wrong thing. But there’s nobody to yell at now. Nobody knew better.”

“Yeah,” Melissa agrees. “Nobody. Including you.” She lets out a breath. “God, Chris, I can’t imagine what it’s been like, living with that, after you found out that maybe you were wrong. But you’re a _good man_ , Chris. I know that you’ve made some bad decisions in the past few months, maybe made a few wrong choices. But I still think that underneath all this, this pain that you’re taking out on the PDSS coming home, I think there’s a brave, strong man who’s capable of doing the right thing.”

When Chris says nothing, she says, “Let me ask you this. If you’d had a chance to do that mission a second time – same building, same insurgents, just a different hostage – wouldn’t you have used the information you got after the first mission went FUBAR to make the right choices, the second time?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“That’s what’s happening now, Chris. You can’t go back in time and change the fact that you didn’t know better, and Victoria died. But you don’t have to lose Allison, too. Because you know differently now. You have the information that you didn’t have the first time.”

Chris’ face twists like he’s about to start crying again, but he slowly gets it under control. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“One of the hardest things for _anyone_ to do is admit that they were wrong,” Melissa says. “It doesn’t get any easier if you’ve done it before. But I think you’re strong enough to do that. To look at the choices you’ve made since reintegration started and admit that maybe, you were acting out of pain and grief instead of rationality. Nobody’s going to blame you for that, Chris. The Rising affected _all_ of us. But now you can use that strength to help other people. To help your daughter.”

“Maybe,” is all Chris says, and it’s clear from his face that he’s not in any sort of shape to be making decisions.

Melissa decides that she’s pushed enough for one night. “Come on. You need to get some sleep, okay? You can borrow Scott’s room. He’s staying at Stiles’ house tonight.”

Chris just nods and gets off the sofa when she prods him, stumbling blindly up the stairs. She lets him use the bathroom, helps him take off his jacket, boots, and weapons. He falls onto Scott’s bed with an undignified grunt.

“One more thing.” Melissa kneels down beside him and takes his hand. “In the morning, you’re going to be hungover as hell. You’re going to look back on this and you’re going to hate yourself for coming to me, for showing weakness. That’s okay, too, Chris. I promise that I’m here for you, no matter what you think about this tomorrow.”

Chris makes a formless noise that’s more of a growl than anything else. Melissa leans down and kisses him on the forehead.

“Get some sleep, captain,” she says, but his breathing is already deep and even and his eyes are closed.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Derek wakes up early, as he often does, and views the pile of sleeping teenagers in his living room with something that feels like honest affection. Scott and Kira are spooning in a corner. Lydia and Allison are asleep facing each other, with Allison’s head tucked against Lydia’s shoulder and Lydia’s hand twined in Allison’s hair even in her sleep, as if she’s afraid of letting go. Isaac is curled into a little ball and Cora is draped over a cushion not far away. Erica, who arrived around two AM, is tucked up between them. Then there’s Stiles, sprawled out all over everyone, with an arm flopped over Scott and Kira’s feet, his leg hooked between Lydia’s ankles. There’s a suspicious warmth in Derek’s chest when he looks at Stiles. Without thinking, he kneels down beside him and runs a finger down along the stapled wound in his neck.

Stiles blinks awake and makes a little rumbly noise in the back of his throat. Derek yanks his hand away, but Stiles just offers him a sleepy smile. “Mornin’,” he mumbles, then his eyes close again.

“Thanks,” Derek murmurs, mostly to himself. It’s because of Stiles that he isn’t alone anymore. Stiles is the one who brought all these people into his life, who helped him forge some connections. It’s worth more than he would have thought possible.

He heads into his studio and starts working, doing some color sketches of Stiles in the club the night before, practice runs for the painting he wants to do. He sketches a few of the others, too, thinking maybe he’ll do some sort of series of partially deceased syndrome sufferers. A few hours later, he’s lost himself in his work, and Cora comes in. “Stiles went home,” she greets him.

“Oh,” Derek says. “Uh. Okay.”

“He didn’t want to bother you while you were working, but he said to tell you he’ll call you later.” Cora flops onto the sofa and puts her feet up. “Camden took Erica and Isaac out shopping, since Erica lost a bunch of stuff in the fire, and the others left with Stiles.”

“Okay,” Derek says again, somewhat absently, already redirecting his attention to the painting.

Cora gives an amused snort and flips open a magazine, since talking to her brother is obviously a lost cause.

About another half hour has passed when Peter pokes his head into the studio, startling him, and says, “May I speak to you two for a few moments?”

“Sure,” Derek says. He glances askance at Cora, who glowers but nods. There aren’t enough seats for three people in the studio, and he doubts that Cora wants to share the sofa with Peter, so they troop back into the kitchen. Peter sits down at one end of the table and taps one finger pensively as the others get themselves settled.

“I’ve debated for some time whether or not I should tell either of you this,” he says. “Given information that has recently come to light about the involvement of certain parties, I’ve decided that you need to know.”

“How very cryptic,” Cora says, scowling at him.

Peter doesn’t respond to her ire. Instead, he looks at them both steadily and says, “The fire that killed the rest of our family was not an accident.”

Derek feels like the breath has been kicked out of him. “W-What?” he asks. He shoots a look at Cora, and sees that she’s similarly stunned.

“About three months before the fire, your father took on a murder case for a client that he was fairly sure was being framed. Knowing that the best way to prove that was to find out who was framing him, he asked me if I could investigate for him. In the course of my investigation, I stumbled upon evidence of much more extensive corruption than one single murder trial. Multiple officials and judges were involved. It mostly had to do with accepting bribes or political favors in civil lawsuits.” Peter waves this aside. “The details aren’t important. I wanted to go public with it. Your father decided he would rather concentrate on the trial we were currently involved in so he could make sure that an innocent man didn’t go down for murder, so I agreed. The fire was two weeks later.”

“That – that’s a hell of a coincidence, granted,” Derek manages, “but it’s not exactly proof.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Peter agrees, “which is why I set about finding proof afterwards. I spent a good deal of the family fortune, apologies, to buy information. I managed to determine that the fire had been the work of a contract killer who goes by the name Jaguar.”

“Really?” Cora’s voice is dry. “I mean, I don’t doubt you, Uncle Peter, but – ”

Peter shrugs. “Hit men don’t use their own names. You want to complain about the melodrama, take it up with the guild.”

“Do they actually have a guild?” Derek asks. He’s so off balance; he feels like nothing would surprise him at this point.

“More of a network,” Peter says. “It was a joke, relax.” He shakes his head a little and says, “Unfortunately, I was taken out of commission before I could track her or her employers down.”

Cora makes a scoffing little noise, but Derek’s taken aback by Peter’s choice of language. He knows his uncle, knows that he always chooses his words purposefully. “When you say ‘taken out of commission’, do you mean . . .”

Peter folds his hands in front of himself. He keeps his gaze mostly on Derek as he speaks, with only an occasional glance at Cora. “My behavior after the fire was not . . . exemplary. I was in fairly constant pain, and the rehab was draining physically as well as emotionally. I did spend a lot of nights out on the town, and I did get blind and stupid drunk a fair number of times. I also went for a lot of late-night drives, to clear my head. But I never combined those two things, because I am not an _idiot_.” He shakes his head a little. “My memories of the night of my death are, unfortunately, very blurry. I was out driving at night when the car began to act strangely. The accelerator seemed stuck and the power steering wasn’t working. I lost control of the car and crashed.”

Cora is staring at him, open-mouthed, but Peter continues to recite facts as if he was teaching a history lesson. “Now, I’ve seen the crime reports, and apparently there were several open bottles of vodka in the car with me. Which is fascinating, particularly to me, since I certainly didn’t put them there. I don’t even _like_ vodka. I’ve always been much more of a Scotch or bourbon man, to be honest.”

“Did they – do an autopsy or anything?” Derek asks.

“Well, they didn’t exactly need one to show what had killed me,” Peter says. “Toxicology reports can easily be faked. So, they tried to kill me once and failed, tried to kill me a second time and succeeded. But the one thing they couldn’t possibly have counted on was the Rising. Now that I’m back, I’ve been able to put some of this together. It’s taken time to get my memories back in order – ”

“Wait,” Cora blurts out. “You just, just skimmed past it, but – but you were _murdered_? I’ve been a gigantic bitch to you for driving drunk and getting yourself killed and that’s not even what happened? Jesus, Uncle Peter, why?”

Peter regards her for a quiet moment, then says, “If blaming me, hating me, helped you cope with Laura’s death, I didn’t want to take that away from you. I know that the two of you were close.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Cora trails off.

“Frankly, Cora, I didn’t care what you thought of me,” Peter says. With a somewhat amused smile, he says, “The opinions of other people have never mattered much to me.”

Cora’s still in shock, so Derek says, “Okay, then why are you telling us now? You said something about ‘recent events’.”

“The fires at the Lahey and Reyes houses,” Peter says. “They might be connected.”

Cora frowns, catching up to the conversation. “Why would a contract killer care about killing a bunch of PDSS?”

“Well, that is the question,” Peter says. “It’s possible that she was, again, hired. But there’s a strange commonality between these cases. One of the main officials that was involved in our investigation was Gerard Argent. And now, of course, one of the main anti-PDS proponents is Chris Argent. I’m not sure what that might mean.”

“And when – when you told me that people other than the HVF might try to get your location out of me – ” Cora says.

Peter nods. “It remains a distinct possibility that someone will do that, and if it happens, I want you to tell them whatever they want to know.” He reaches out across the table and grips Cora’s hand. She’s so off-balance from the entire thing that she allows it, even squeezes back, hard. “I don’t want you to get hurt for our sake. These people play for keeps. Understood?”

“Y-Yeah,” she says, pushing her free hand through her hair. “Okay, yeah.”

Derek lets out a breath. “So what do we do?”

“‘We’ do nothing,” Peter says. “This is my field, and before you ask, yes, I have shared my suspicions with Sheriff Stilinski and we’re working together on this. I just wanted you two to be aware of what was going on, because sooner or later, the truth about the fire at our house was going to come out.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Derek asks.

“Not at the moment,” Peter says, “but I’ll let you know if I need you for anything.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris wakes up feeling like an entire herd of horses has been stampeding through his head while he slept. He groans and rolls over, attempting to fall back into unconsciousness. It doesn’t happen. After a few minutes of lying there pondering his poor life choices, he staggers out of bed and into the bathroom, where he uses the facilities and splashes some cold water on his face.

He isn’t even one hundred percent sure of where he is until he gets back to the bedroom he had apparently passed out in. His jacket has been folded and put on a chair. There’s a tall glass of water and a bottle of aspirin sitting on the nightstand, along with a note that reads, ‘Dear Chris, I hope you’re feeling better this morning. Feel free to use the shower and/or have some coffee before you go. I had to be at work at eight AM. I left my spare key on the kitchen table downstairs so you can lock up before you go. You can hang onto it if you want, or bring it by the hospital. Don’t be a stranger. Love, Melissa.’

He crumples the note up and presses the heel of his hand to his temple to try to ease the throbbing sensation there. It does very little to help. After a minute to struggle against the nausea, he downs the glass of water along with three of the aspirin. Then he gets up and gets dressed.

It isn’t as though he has anywhere to be, since he doesn’t precisely work. His men have probably checked in by now, but his phone is nowhere to be seen. He growls impatiently and searches for Melissa’s landline. There’s only one, a portable phone plugged into an outlet in the kitchen. He picks it up and dials his cell phone number.

He half-expects to hear it ringing somewhere in the house, but after a few minutes, a voice picks up with, “Hello?”

“Hey, uh . . . this is Captain Argent. You have my phone. Whoever you are.”

The voice warms up slightly. “It’s Sally at the tavern. You left it here last night.”

“Oh, okay. That’s sort of what I was hoping. I’ll come by to get it soon.”

“Okay. Are you all right, Captain?” Sally asks, full of concern. “You were kind of, you know. Out of sorts last night.”

Chris sighs. “I didn’t make a scene or throw up or anything, did I?”

“No, but I had to cut you off. Mike offered to take you home but you wouldn’t let him. Oh, and your sister called this morning looking for you. I guess you aren’t at home. You _are_ all right, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine, Sal, I just had – I had a bad night,” Chris says. “Just hang onto my phone for a little bit. If my sister calls again, tell her that I’ll be home soon.”

Not that he wants to go home. That’s one of the last places he wants to go. He doesn’t want to tell Kate about Allison. He doesn’t want to _think_ about Allison, about the look on her face as he pushed past her to leave the tavern, the look of utter heartbreak. No soulless creature could have that much pain on their face. He was sure of that.

He was her father. He was supposed to protect her. But he hadn’t. She had been murdered, and infected, and now he had turned away from her.

Chris rubs a hand over his face. He thinks about what Kate would say. It’s not his daughter. It’s just a monster now. You did the right thing. And he thinks of Melissa, telling him that it was okay if he had made mistakes, that he was strong enough to face up to that.

But he doesn’t feel very strong at all.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different!

 

Stiles can hardly believe that he’s actually looking forward to an evening by himself. He can remember a time, only a few months ago, that the idea would have given him a panic attack. But lately it seems like someone is _always_ on top of him. Allison lives with him now, of course, and so Lydia is over twice as much as she used to be. Scott drops by regularly, and often brings Kira with him. Since the fires started, his father has been more antsy than usual, checking in with him by phone several times a day. And when he isn’t being bombarded at home, he’s usually at Derek’s, reading or watching TV while the other man sketches or paints.

But now Allison is spending the night at Lydia’s, his father has called to say he’s going to be working late, and he has the house to himself. He turns the music up as loud as he can without the neighbors complaining (although then at least they would have something valid to complain about) and spreads the Allison Argent missing person case file over the kitchen table.

He’s had to be stealthy about this, since Allison doesn’t want to talk, hear, or think about it. And Stiles has no idea what his father would do if he knew that he had bribed a clerk to get him a copy of the file, but it wouldn’t be pretty. But the file is huge, heavily detailed and meticulously organized, and even having read it twice, he knows there are things he missed.

Virtually everyone with even a tangential connection to Allison had been interviewed. Everyone on her path home from the skating rink had been talked to. There had been tracking dogs brought in. Her purse was found, but not her cell phone. They had tried to track it down without success. And now there are things to add to the file, at least vague ones. He knew Allison had been strangled. He had gotten a good look at the marks on her neck and spent several days researching what different strangulation marks looked like, and come to the conclusion that she had been strangled with something like a cord or a scarf. That meant he couldn’t rule out either gender, but the profile suggested a man was by far more likely. He’s seen marks on her wrists, too, so she was probably restrained for some time.

He didn’t know where her body was found, but he _did_ know where she had been captured as a rotter, and that was several hours south of Beacon Hills. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. A lot of the PDSS had wandered away from wherever they had been found. But after Lydia’s talk at the tavern, Stiles had realized something.

“If she’s PDSS, she must have been embalmed, right?” he asked Lydia. He didn’t think that fit in very well with the idea of her body having been dumped somewhere. But what were the alternatives? Even if it wasn’t a matter of course for a hospital or police station to check any Jane Doe against missing persons – which it was – he was sure that his father had notified every morgue in the entire state of California to be on the lookout for her. “You said the bacteria fed on the formaldehyde.”

Lydia glanced up, clearly considered telling Stiles not to poke his nose where it didn’t belong, and then saw that such a suggestion was destined for futility. “Keep in mind, that’s just a theory,” she said. “Formaldehyde is something the PDSS have in common, for the most part. But another thing that’s used in embalming is ethanol.”

“Alcohol?” Stiles asked.

Lydia nodded. “So if that’s it, if she was drinking – or even if her – her killer was drinking, and spilled a lot of it on her – that could cause PDS. I mean, we just don’t know. There’s still so much about PDS that nobody’s figured out. A lot of what we say we ‘know’ is still just educated guesses at this point. Anyway, formaldehyde does have other uses besides embalming, although I think they’re mostly industrial.”

Stiles nodded and filed that away, writing it down with the rest of his information on the murder. Another curious thing is something he’s heard Allison say during her nightmares. Most of it is standard ‘don’t hurt me’ type of pleas, but occasionally she complains about flashes of light. He has no idea what that means.

He has enough information to float an ark, but he can’t put it together in any sort of order that makes sense. He has to admit that even if he can identify suspects, a lot of people have left Beacon Hills in the meantime, presuming it was someone local to begin with, and a lot of people have died. But if whoever had killed Allison is still out there, he wants to find them, before they hurt someone else.

After re-reading, re-organizing, and adding his own insights to the file, Stiles packs it all up and is thinking about watching a movie, when he hears the sound of breaking glass. Then there’s another noise, a strange ‘whoompf’, and he shields his eyes as the sofa bursts into flames.

It takes him a minute to figure out what happened, that someone had thrown a Molotov cocktail through the window and it had hit the sofa. He swears and grabs the fire extinguisher that his father had procured right after the Reyes fire. Before he can even pull the pin out, he hears another window break, and sees another gout of flame come up in the kitchen.

“Shit!” Stiles grabs his phone and runs out of the house. In his panic, it doesn’t occur to him that it would probably be safer to take the back door, and he stumbles out onto the front lawn. He’s barely made it to the sidewalk and is about to dial 911 when he sees the man crouched behind the neighbor’s car, one arm pulled back as he’s about to throw another Molotov cocktail. “Hey!”

He takes another step forward, and then there’s an obscenely loud bang and he winds up on his ass. It doesn’t hurt, and it takes him a few moments to realize he just got shot. He can’t move his right arm, and when he raises his left hand to figure out why, he finds a hole in his shoulder.

His temper snaps with a sudden wash of rage. He scrambles back to his feet and runs at the man behind the car. He pulls the trigger again, but this time it goes wide, and Stiles takes him in a tackle. They wind up sprawled out all over the street as he tries to get the gun away from him.

The man starts shouting. “Help! Help! Rotter!” and at that moment, Stiles realizes what a stupid decision he just made. The man keeps screaming about rabids and rotters and then, moments later, Stiles is hauled off of him before he can even think about getting up under his own steam.

“Hey, whoa, whoa,” the guy who grabbed him said. Stiles recognizes him; it’s Vernon Boyd, the younger. He’s got Stiles by the arm, but it’s not really a hold, and he’s being surprisingly gentle. The man with the gun scrambles up to his feet. “Shut up, he’s not rabid, you’re going to cause a panic – ”

“He tried to kill me!” the man shouts.

“You fucking shot me!” Stiles retorts.

“Calm down, Mr. Harris, you’re fine – ” Boyd says, and then another young man their age runs up to them, and Boyd says, “Matt, it’s not – ” and then the tip of the stun gun jams into Stiles’ ribs.

Stiles winds up on the ground, his entire body spasming and out of his control. _That_ hurts, and he can taste – not blood, but something unpleasant – in his mouth. He bit down on his tongue.

“For Christ’s _sake_ , Daehler, just call the fucking fire department,” Boyd is saying, and then there’s a huge crowd and Stiles really wishes he could do something other than lie on the pavement and have a stun-gun induced seizure.

By the time he’s gotten his shit together, he’s somehow got handcuffs around both his wrists and ankles and has been flung into the back of a police van. Just his luck that Parrish must be off today and it’s some other deputy, who has enormous issues about PDS. He lies there and quietly seethes and tries to see whether or not the house has burned down.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?” a voice demands, and Stiles melts with relief because his father has finally arrived.

“Dad, I’m over here!” he shouts, and a few moments later his father has him sitting up and is cupping Stiles’ face in his hands.

“You’re okay?” he demands.

“I got a little roughed up but I’m fine,” he says, and sees the stark terror on his father’s face gradually wash into relief. “Get this shit off me.”

“Who’s got the keys for these damned things?” Tom shouts, turning to the crowd. Somehow, nobody seems to know exactly where the cuffs came from or who can get them off. “Okay, what happened?”

“Your son attacked me!” the man, apparently Harris, shoves out of the crowd. He looks smug, and there are bruises and blood on his face that Stiles is pretty sure he didn’t put there. “He tried to smash my head into the pavement and eat my brains!”

There’s a low murmur from the crowd, and Stiles can tell that the mood is growing dangerous. Tom seems to sense it too, because he says quietly to Stiles, “Did you attack this man?”

Stiles swallows and says. “He set the house on fire, and when I ran outside, he shot me. So I tackled him to try to get the gun. I couldn’t have done that to him; I can’t even move my right arm.”

“I don’t even have a gun!” Harris says. “Search me, if you want!”

“Sir?” Boyd pushes through the crowd. There’s more noise, and Stiles sees Matt Daehler grabbing him and trying to pull him back. “I saw what happened. Stiles is telling the truth. I was parked down there – ” He points down the street. “Because we have twenty-four hour surveillance on your son.” He doesn’t apologize for it and doesn’t linger on it. “I saw Mr. Harris walk up with a cardboard box and start throwing bottles through your windows. I got out of my car and came over here to tell him to cut it out, but before I could get there, Stiles ran out of the house. Mr. Harris took out a gun and fired on him, so Stiles ran over and tackled him. I separated them, can’t have been ten seconds later. I tried to explain that to my partner – ” He shoots an annoyed look at Matt – “and to the police officer that showed up, but nobody wanted to listen to me, which is why he got cuffed and thrown into the van. As for the gun, I’m pretty sure I saw Harris toss it through the sewer grate over there.”

Sheriff Stilinski straightens up and grips Boyd by the shoulder for a minute. “Thank you,” he says. He looks back at Harris. “As for whether or not you fired a gun, the powder burns on your hands will tell that story.”

“He’s lying, they’re all lying!” Harris shouts. “Look at my face!”

“Look at the scuff marks on Matt’s knuckles,” Boyd mutters.

Tom’s face tightens. “Mr. Harris, Mr. Daehler, you’re both coming down to the station for questioning. Stiles, you need to go to the hospital – if you can’t move your arm, it’s probably because your collarbone is broken.”

“I’ll take him,” Boyd says.

“Thanks,” Tom says. Other police officers are showing up now. Stiles looks over at the house and sees that it’s mostly still intact, and there are no more flames.

Harris struggles to get free from the deputy that grabbed him. “Why don’t you believe me?” he shouts. “He’s nothing but a murderer! He doesn’t deserve to be here!”

Stiles snaps to attention. “You – ” He cuts off the nasty thing he wants to say, and instead looks at his father. “That’s what a bunch of the death threats said. The voice is different, but I think he was just trying to talk low and rough. He’s the one who kept calling.”

“I – I don’t know what you’re talking about! Murderer! Rotter!”

“Get in the car,” Tom says, his face grim, as he steers Harris into the cruiser.

Boyd finally manages to get Matt to produce the keys to the manacles, and he gets Stiles free and on his feet. “Sorry about him,” he says, gesturing for Stiles to follow him over to his car. “He’s a jerk.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Stiles says, even though it isn’t. He gets into the passenger side, and stays quiet as Boyd pulls onto the street, heading for the hospital. “Thanks for standing up for me.”

“Wasn’t a big deal,” Boyd says. “I just told the truth.”

“Yeah, but . . . a lot of people wouldn’t have,” Stiles says. “And I know that . . . what happened to you guys was awful, and that you’ve got pretty valid reasons to not want me here.”

Boyd’s quiet for a long minute. Then he says, “Yeah, I know. I’m still in the HVF mostly because my dad is having trouble letting some of this shit go, and I think it makes him feel better, so I do it. But some of these guys . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to live in a world where just telling the truth is something miraculous and praiseworthy.”

“I guess that does kinda suck,” Stiles says. “Be the change you want to see?”

Boyd glances over and rolls his eyes. “No pep talks.”

“Got it. Shutting up.”

The trip to the hospital is actually pretty interesting. There’s no anesthesia that can be used, so he gets to watch while they dig in his shoulder to remove bullet fragments, then use a metal clamp and some wire to repair his clavicle, and then literally superglue his skin closed afterwards. “God, I suddenly feel like I’m in a Tim Burton movie,” he says to the doctor, who just rolls his eyes.

“Okay, you’re good to go,” the doctor tells him. “I think Melissa was going to pick you up.”

“Okay.” Stiles puts the remains of his shirt back on, which doesn’t help very much, and heads to the staff lounge, where he finds Melissa waiting for him. “Where are we going?” he asks. “Is my house okay?”

“It’s singed a bit and a lot of it is damp,” Melissa says. “They’re going to need to do some repairs. You can stay with us for a few days.”

“Since if we cram any more people into Derek’s house, he might have an aneurysm,” Stiles says with a snort of laughter.

“Yep,” Melissa says. “He’s a cutie, though.”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles agrees, looking out the window, glad that he can’t blush. He misses the slight smile on Melissa’s face as she continues driving. They reach the McCall house a few minutes later.

Scott is waiting for them, and eager to examine Stiles’ war wound. “Gross,” he says enthusiastically.

“I know, right?” Stiles agrees, and Melissa shakes her head at both of them. They settle in front of the television.

He’s asleep by the time his father comes home, but rouses himself when he hears low voices, and wakes to find Tom and Melissa talking quietly while Tom watches him sleep. “Hey,” he says, rubbing a hand over his hair.

“Hey, you,” his father says. “Go back to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

“Mmkay,” Stiles says, rolling over. He feels like he should be interested, but he’s not, not really. It’s late, he’s tired. A lot has been going on lately, and he just can’t get as excited about someone trying to kill him as he probably should be able to.

So it isn’t until the next morning that he winds up sitting down with his father in the McCall’s kitchen, making breakfast for everybody. Tom lets out a breath and says, “First things first. We don’t think this was connected to the other fires. He says he got the idea from what happened at the Reyes house, and I think he’s probably telling the truth. He has an alibi for that night, so he definitely didn’t set that fire.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, tending the French toast with a studious expression.

“Secondly. He had kind of a . . . breakdown. In the interrogation. When we asked him about the death threats. Apparently.” Tom hesitates. “When you were in your untreated state, you killed his girlfriend.”

Stiles’ hands go still. “Oh,” he says.

“He saw it happen. That’s why he targeted you, but doesn’t seem to care that much about the other PDSS being in town.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I mean, it’s not okay, but . . . I get it.”

There’s several long minutes of silence. Stiles cracks eggs into a bowl and starts mixing them so he can make scrambled eggs for the others. Tom drinks his coffee, clearly considering his words very carefully. Finally, he says, “Even if we prosecuted him to the full extent of the law, he wouldn’t get much jail time. A jury would be sympathetic, most likely, and since PDSS aren’t considered full citizens, we can’t use a first degree attempted murder charge. Only aggravated assault.”

“And if we don’t prosecute him?” Stiles asks.

Tom lets out a slow breath. “If we agree to a lesser charge . . . psychological treatment, PDS re-education, and a restraining order. Depending on the judge, they might make him move out of Beacon Hills.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. He pours the eggs into the pan and looks over at his father. “What do you want to do?”

It’s a long moment before his father replies. “Honestly, the fact that he tried to kill you doesn’t bother me as much as the fact that he tried to convince everyone that you had gone rabid. If Boyd hadn’t been there, and hadn’t been willing to tell the truth . . .” His voice trails off. “But Parrish has been all over me about making exceptions and presenting a softer image when possible, and this would be a good opportunity to show that I’m willing to compromise.”

“Winning the election is more important than punishing Harris,” Stiles agrees.

Tom nods and pushes a hand through his hair. “Yeah. That basically sums it up.”

Stiles is quiet for another moment. “I think I’d be okay with him getting psychological treatment and a restraining order instead of jail time. I don’t . . . I don’t like what he did, but . . . I can understand it. If someone with PDSS had killed you or Scott during the Rising, I don’t know if I’d be . . . sane. You know? Even knowing that they weren’t responsible for their actions, I don’t know if I’d be able to just live with that.”

“Yeah,” Tom says quietly. “Okay.”

“But I’d really like that whole ‘not living in Beacon Hills’ thing anymore,” Stiles adds. “If it’s possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do. C’mere.” Tom snags his son by the wrist and pulls him into an embrace. “You’re a good kid, Stiles. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. No matter what happened during the Rising. Okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles murmurs.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It takes a few minutes for Chris to realize that Kate’s tone of voice is annoyed, and that he should probably be listening to what she’s saying. He tunes back in to her saying, “three point bump in the polls” and stops listening again. A few minutes later, she lightly whaps him over the back of the head. “Chris! This is big news, this is huge! We have to issue a statement.”

“So issue one,” Chris says from where he’s sitting on the counter, since his apartment no longer has chairs.

“Well, if his majesty could pay attention to what I’m saying for five minutes, I was suggesting that _you_ give a statement. You know, to a reporter. Yourself.”

Chris rubs a hand over his face. “It’s that big?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kate says. “We’ve painted Sheriff Stilinski as the guy who’s completely intolerant of the HVF and anyone who has a problem with reintegration. Now someone tries to set his _kid_ on fire, and his reaction is basically ‘well, I can understand why he did that’, and recommending psychological treatment and re-education over jail time? Chris! This is _huge_. He was already leading you and now he’s gotten a bump from this and the election is only six weeks away. The debate is next week. We have to say something.”

Chris heaves a sigh and tries to work the particulars through his muddy brain and figure out what he should say, what would be appropriate. Nothing comes to mind.

“Look, do you even care about this?” Kate asks. “Because believe it or not, I’ve got my own shit to do.”

“Like what?” Chris asks. “You already killed all the rotters in Phoenix.”

Kate presses her lips together into a thin line, but she doesn’t deny it. “Yeah, and I came here to kill the ones here. You had no trouble with that when I showed up. Now suddenly it’s a problem?”

Chris says nothing.

When he doesn’t reply, Kate pushes the issue. “Look, I know you’re all fucked up about this whole thing with Allison, I know you loved your daughter, but she’s gone. That thing you met wasn’t her. She’s one of them now, and you know what that means, right?”

Rage erupts inside Chris like a forest fire, and he grabs his sister by the throat, throwing her down onto the floor and pinning her there. “Don’t you dare touch Allison,” he growls, pressing his gun into Kate’s temple. “Don’t you fucking dare go near my daughter!”

Kate doesn’t fight back. She reaches up and caresses his cheek. “Chris, your daughter’s dead,” she says, her voice gentle. “I’m sorry. I really, really am. But she’s dead, she’s gone. And I’m not going to let that thing parade around wearing her face and rubbing salt in that wound.”

“Don’t you – ” Chris’ voice cracks. “Don’t you touch her.”

“I would _never_ hurt Allison,” Kate says. “You _know_ that. She was my niece and I loved her. But she’s gone. She’s gone, Chris.” Kate watches his face contort in an effort to hold back tears. “Say it with me, Chris. Allison’s gone. Say it.”

Chris’ shoulders heave. “I can’t.”

“You need to, Chris. You need to say it.”

“Allison . . .” Chris squeezes his eyes shut. “Allison’s gone.”

Kate reaches up and rubs her hand over the back of his neck. “Okay, Chris,” she says, and he collapses on top of her, harsh sobs escaping him. “Okay. I won’t hurt it if you don’t want me to. I’ll just make sure it leaves town. Okay? It’s going to be okay, Chris.”

He lays there a long time, crying into her shoulder and letting her murmur soothing words into his ear. Finally, he sits up, rubs a hand over his face. He feels numb, exhausted. “So . . . we should say . . . we should be positive, right? You can’t slam your opponent for doing something you’ve advocated. It makes you look like an ass. So we should say . . . we’re glad that he’s realized that sometimes exceptions need to be made.”

“Exactly.” Kate gives him a pleased smile and squeezes his shoulder. “And then we tell a few of our closest supporters, who tell their closest friends, who tell _their_ closest friends, that he only did it because of the election, that it’s just a desperate bid for votes, and that he’ll go back to being a hardass if he wins the election. We’ll say we’ve got it from an inside source.”

Chris nods. “Okay. We . . . we’ve got to start preparing for the debate, right? I guess I should get some chairs or something.”

“Sure. Or we can do it at my place. You need to leave the house more.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Chris hauls himself off the floor. “Let’s get started.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia Martin for queen of everything tbh

 

“Are you sure you want to go tonight?” Stiles asks, watching Allison apply her makeup. “I mean, we could just stay home and watch it on TV. That’s what Derek said he and his uncle are going to do.” Actually, Derek had said that that’s what Peter was going to do. He personally seemed to have no interest in watching the debate at all.

“I’m sure,” Allison says. She doesn’t look over from the mirror. Lydia had taken her to Sephora, just like she promised, and she looks good now, nearly human. The redhead had been over earlier, but had left just after lunch, saying that she had things to prepare.

Stiles sighs under his breath. Allison’s been different in the last few days, different since she saw her father on television, talking about Mr. Harris’ attack on Stiles. Talking about how pleased he is that Sheriff Stilinski has come around to the notion that vigilantes attacking PDSS is understandable. Then he had talked at some length about how this sort of thing wouldn’t be necessary if PDSS weren’t reintegrated. “I understand the government cannot keep them in facilities any longer,” he said, “but certainly there are better solutions than letting them live among us.”

Hope that Allison’s return had gotten through to Chris had thus been dashed in a rather spectacular sort of way. If anything, it seems to have energized him. Stiles accepted this with aplomb, because he has no real stake in it, but Allison is upset, and for some reason Melissa seems particularly angry about it but won’t say why.

Stiles tries to care because he knows that the others care, but he doesn’t, not really. He knows that even if his father wins the election, it’s not going to fix anything. They’ve got a long road ahead of them no matter what happens. He daydreams sometimes about asking Derek if he wants to just go live in some remote forest cabin with them. He thinks he could be happy with that, at least for a while.

But nobody else is okay with that (except possibly his father) so they’re all preparing for the debate. The moderator, Alex Mahealani, has already said that he’s devoting the first hour to general matters and the second hour to reintegration specifically. That should keep things from getting out of hand.

Stiles has a vague suspicion that Lydia and Allison have planned something for the debate, but every time he finds them talking about it, they become suspiciously silent. Fine with him. He knows that audience questions are going to be accepted, so that probably has something to do with it.

Lydia picks him up at four o’clock sharp, and when they get to the school gymnasium where the debate is being held, he finds they’ve roped off an area for PDSS to watch from. “Are you _kidding_ me?” Lydia asks, and stamps off in her high heels and bionic leg to find someone to yell at. Stiles just laces his fingers through Allison’s and goes to sit down.

When Scott and Kira show up, he sees them look between the two sections, then deliberately walk over to the PDS section and sit down with Stiles and Allison. Stiles greets him with a hug and a quiet thank you. The gymnasium starts to fill up. “You think any debate over the office of sheriff has ever had such a big audience before?” Kira asks.

“I doubt it,” Stiles says. “Back when my dad won the first election, they didn’t even _have_ a debate.”

Lydia huffs over and sits down next to Allison, saying that she supposes they shouldn’t cause a scene by just seating themselves in the regular audience and seeing what happens. Too much is riding on this evening.

Tom arrives in his uniform and greets several of his supporters. He makes a show of going over to the PDS section and hugging Stiles and Allison, then shaking Scott’s hand. Then he shakes Chris Argent’s hand, and takes his place on the stage. Chris joins him there.

The first hour is hideously boring. They discuss tax codes and traffic laws. Chris might not be experienced with law enforcement, but it’s obvious that he’s prepared meticulously. There’s a blonde woman sitting in the front row, who he looks at every time it seems like he might falter.

There’s a brief period of excitement when Chris accuses Tom of having abandoned the town after Stiles’ death. Alex Mahealani says, “We’ll discuss PDS issues in the second half,” and Chris argues that this isn’t a PDS issue, it’s an issue of reliability. It’s an issue of the sheriff having let his constituents down.

Tom is smart enough not to try to argue with him about it. “You’re right,” he says. “I lost my son, and my grief prevented me from doing my job properly. I should have resigned my position, but to be honest I wasn’t thinking straight enough to even do that. I’m sorry that I let you down, but what I can promise is that it won’t happen again.”

“And how do you know that?” Chris asks, gesturing to where Stiles is sitting in the PDS section.

Tom gives a tight smile and says, “I can absolutely promise you that if I lose my son again, I’ll resign my position straightaway.”

The unspoken ‘so I can kill the motherfucker who did it and then shoot myself in the head’ is clearly heard by everyone in the audience.

Alex Mahealani hastily asks another question, about arrests for repeat offenders.

There’s a short break before the PDS section. Stiles sips a cup of water between his tightly clenched hands and waits.

Things kick into gear immediately when the first question Alex takes from the audience is, “Mr. Argent, how can you consider yourself a viable candidate for sheriff after you nearly shot a PDSS in the street?”

Chris clears his throat. “I was operating under faulty intelligence when that happened,” he says. “I had reason to believe that Mr. Meyers was a threat.”

Alex says, “Can you tell us what led you to believe that?”

“It was an anonymous tip,” Chris says.

The next question, lobbied at Tom, doesn’t take things down a notch. “Sheriff Stilinski, is it possible for you to be impartial about reintegration when your son is a PDSS?”

“No, it isn’t,” Tom says, not bothering to cushion it. “I’ve never pretended to be impartial about this. I absolutely believe that PDSS have the right to reintegrate, and that’s been my platform since the beginning.”

There are a series of questions about vigilantism, crime sentencing, whether or not there is any viable alternative to reintegration. Lydia quietly gets up with Allison and they join the line of people waiting to ask questions. Stiles  glances at them and sighs, but doesn’t try to stop them.

“If PDSS can’t reintegrate, where do you suggest they go?” someone asks Chris.

“I think that they should be kept in facilities.”

“At taxpayer expense?” the woman replies. “Or should the families of people unlucky enough to die within a specific time frame have to shoulder that burden?”

“Obviously, there would be some details that we would need to think about.”

“Obviously,” the woman says, and goes back to her seat.

The next man up has a question for Tom. “If you’re platforming on successful reintegration, how come two families with PDSS have had their houses burned down and you haven’t been able to do anything to prevent it or catch the perpetrators?”

“I’m following a number of leads right now,” Tom says. “Rest assured, the person responsible will be found and brought to account for it.”

Things are only keying up further, and Stiles gets increasingly nervous as Lydia and Allison approach the front of the line. He’s chewing on his fingernails and wishing he had brought something to occupy his hands with. Finally, they’re there. Lydia leans forward and speaks into the microphone, her voice clear and crisp. “Mr. Argent, you’ve gone on the record as saying you don’t think that PDSS are human. That they are, and I quote, an ‘abomination’.”

Chris’ jaw clenches. “I was upset when I said that.”

“You’ve said it plenty of times when you weren’t upset,” Lydia says. “Let’s be honest here. You don’t think that PDSS should be put in concentration camps. You think they should be exterminated. That is why you brought in an assassin, isn’t it?”

“I don’t take your meaning,” Chris replies.

“Well, your campaign manager, your sister, Kate. She comes from the HVF in West Phoenix, where every single PDSS that attempted to reintegrate was murdered.”

“Plenty of PDSS left town under their own steam after the laws were changed.”

“We’ll have to take your word for that, though, won’t we?” Lydia says, “Since none of them are available for comment. In fact, I wasn’t able to track a single one of them down.”

“Clearly, they don’t want to be found.”

“I wouldn’t either, if I were them.” Lydia is still speaking pleasantly, and the entire audience seems to be holding their breath. “But all right. Let’s say you honestly think your sister isn’t a murderer. Let’s say you only brought her in for moral support and your campaign for sheriff, suddenly begun after her arrival, has nothing to do with _her_ desire to kill all the PDSS in Beacon Hills. You’re still responsible for your own words, which is that they should be put down. In fact, I believe you called it your ‘civic duty’.”

“To kill PDSS who are a danger to the community, yes.”

“Like Garrett Meyers?”

Chris jaw is still tense. “I had reason to believe he was.”

“So you thought he was rabid.”

“Yes.”

“And that made him a danger to the community.”

“Yes.”

“Which by process of elimination, means that PDSS who _aren’t_ rabid therefore _aren’t_ a danger to the community?”

“I – ” Chris sees how neatly Lydia trapped him a moment too late.

“Which means there’s no reason for them to be put in concentration camps, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t – ”

Lydia tugs Allison forward and gives her what looks like a rough shove, although Stiles suspects that it isn’t. Allison goes to her knees in front of Lydia. “Here we have a non-rabid PDS. She used to be your daughter, but now she’s an abomination. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to shoot her in the head.” She pulls out her gun and presses the muzzle into the back of Allison’s head.

“No!” Chris shouts, extending a hand, unable to help himself.

“Oh, Captain Argent,” Lydia says. “Do you have a _problem_ with that?”

“I – ” Chris’ face has gone white. His hand is still outstretched, shaking.

Tom gets to his feet. “Miss Martin,” he says quietly. “You’ve made your point. Put your gun away and go back to your seat.”

“Certainly, sheriff.” Lydia tucks the gun back into her purse and helps Allison to her feet. Then she looks at Chris and says, “It wasn’t loaded, anyway.”

The entire audience is just sitting there, stunned and silent. Chris’ hands are gripping the edges of the podium so tightly that his knuckles are white. Even Alex Mahealani has no idea what to say after that. He clears his throat several times and finally says, “Next question?”

“I . . .” the woman behind Lydia in line says. Then she shakes her head. “Never mind.” She goes back to her seat.

“Okay, uh . . . anyone else?” Alex asks, and people shuffle their feet and look anywhere but at the moderator and two candidates. “Okay, then, er . . . I guess we’re done here . . . thank you for coming, gentlemen . . .”

Chris steps off the stage and heads for the exit without looking to his left or right. The blonde woman, presumably Kate, gets up and hurries after him. Other people start rising from their seats, talking to their neighbors, and the atmosphere returns to something like normal. Tom steps off the stage and mills around in the crowd for a few minutes, thanking his supporters and answering a few more questions.

When the crowd has cleared, Tom walks over to the knot of teenagers sitting in the PDS section. He looks at them and sighs. “Really, Lydia?”

“He deserved it,” Lydia says, without batting an eyelash. “He made Allison cry.”

“How did you even know all that stuff?” Scott asks her. “Like, about his sister, and the PDSS in Phoenix and everything?”

“I looked,” Lydia says, sounding somewhat exasperated. “It’s called research, Scott.”

“Yeah, but that none of them can be contacted now?” Stiles asks.

Lydia twines a strand of hair around her fingers. “Yeah, that’s a point. I sort of made that up. I want to see the audience playback at that point. See the look on his sister’s face and see if I nailed it. I did _try_ to get in touch with some of them and couldn’t, but absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”

“Sure, Lyds,” Stiles says, shaking his head a little. “Whatever you say.”

Tom shakes his head and puts an arm around Stiles’ shoulder. “Seriously, Lydia. I’m going to need all that research you had. Because if you’re right about this, then Kate is now the number one suspect for the fires at the Lahey and the Reyes’ houses. Did you come across any information about arson in the cases of the Phoenix PDSS who went missing?”

“No,” Lydia says, “but if she’s smart, she’ll change up her methods occasionally.” She twines a strand of hair around her fingers and says, “I have all of my research on my laptop. I’ll send you a copy. Nothing can be proven, you understand. The police didn’t do much investigating because under Arizona law, she wouldn’t have been prosecuted anyway.”

“She would if human people were hurt or endangered, like happened here,” Kira says, gripping Scott’s hand tightly.

“True. I don’t know about that, though.”

Tom glances around at the thinning crowd. “Come on, we shouldn’t talk about this here anyway. They’re supposed to have the repairs on the house finished by now. Let’s go home.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“Well, _that_ was a disaster,” Kate says, getting behind the wheel. “Nice going, Chris.”

Chris slams his hand on the dashboard. “Did you kill the rotters in Phoenix?”

“What?” Kate laughs. “You know I did.”

“But the ones – the ones who weren’t hurting people. Did you kill them, too? Did you kill their families?” Chris chokes on the words. “Did you burn entire families in their beds, because they were sheltering someone with PDS?”

“Not that anyone can prove,” Kate says lightly.

Chris covers his face with one hand. He tries not to think about the fires, about the fact that Kate has never really held a job, but just flitted around from place to place, leaving chaos and destruction in her wake. “This was a mistake,” he says. “I never should have asked you to come here, and I sure as hell never should have agreed to run for sheriff.”

“Then drop out, Chris,” Kate says. “Back down. Give up. That’s what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

“Listen to me, you bitch, you have _no right_ to judge me,” Chris chokes out. “You have no idea what I’ve been through. The Rising was probably like a field day for you. Free rein to kill whoever you wanted, to order people around, to lie and cheat and manipulate. It wasn’t like that for me. I didn’t do any of this because I _wanted_ to. I did it because I _had_ to. Because there were innocent people depending on me. And I thought that I was still – that that was still what was happening. But it isn’t, is it? I’m the bad guy now. I don’t know why – ” He has to stop and take a deep breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

“Chris, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Kate asks. “Are you seriously saying that you’re okay with reintegration?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know!” Chris shakes his head, frustrated. “I want my daughter back.”

“Your daughter’s dead, Chris.”

“But not gone!” Chris says. “She was there tonight. I saw her. You saw her, too.”

Kate shakes her head. “Look, I get that it’s been hard for you, but – ”

“No, you don’t, that’s the whole thing,” Chris says. “You’re not like me. You’re _nothing_ like me. You don’t care about protecting innocent people. You don’t care about making sure Beacon Hills is safe from rotters. You only care about killing. It’s all you’ve ever cared about. Do you think I’ve entirely forgotten our childhood together? Do you think I don’t remember the way you used to impale beetles on Mom’s sewing needles and watch them die? The way you drowned crickets and caterpillars?”

“Every kid does stuff like that – ”

“Not like you. _Never_ like you. You’re sick, Kate.” The words are spilling out so fast that he can’t stop himself. “You need to get away from me. You just – just get the hell away from me and don’t – don’t ever come near me again. Stay away from my daughter, stay away from my _town_. I love this place, Kate. I don’t want you here.”

“Fine,” Kate says. “If that’s how you feel, fine. Just don’t call me when you figure out how badly you just fucked up.”

She gets out of the car, slams the door, and marches away. It takes Chris several long minutes to compose himself enough to slide into the driver’s seat. His hands are trembling, but he manages to drive. He feels – better. He feels surprisingly _good_ , like an enormous weight has been lifted off his chest, like a wound had been opened and the poison had drained out.

It’s about twenty minutes later when he gets to Melissa’s house. She opens the door, sees him, and sighs. “What is it, Chris?”

Chris manages, somehow, to meet her gaze. “I – was wrong,” he says haltingly. “Will you – help me?”

Melissa’s face softens, and she opens the door. “Yeah,” she says. “Come on inside, Chris. I’ll help you.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Peter looks down at the sketch in his hand, the drawing of the woman that Derek had given him. He looks back up at the computer, where he’s been doing some research on Kate Argent and the HVF in west Phoenix. Lydia had asked him if he could help her track some of it down. The Argent connection had interested him, but he had never seen a picture of Kate. Not until he had seen the debate on television.

“Well,” he murmurs, “this is interesting.”

One of the questions about the fire that he had never been able to answer was how the assassin had gotten inside. The circuits in the house that had overloaded would have been physically tampered with at some point. She would have had to set some kind of remotely triggered detonator. And Peter had never been able to figure out how she had done it. There was almost always someone home at the Hale house, and when there wasn’t, everything was locked and they had a state of the art security system. So how had somebody gotten inside?

 _Just a woman I was seeing before the fire,_ Derek had said. And Peter hadn’t made that connection until now, either. He assumed that Derek had meant months or weeks before the fire, but if it had been _right_ before the fire . . .

“Kate Argent,” he says to the computer. “The Jaguar.”

It makes sense. All the pieces fit together. One of the people who stood to lose the most if what Peter had discovered came to light was Gerard Argent. His daughter was a contract killer. He made a call, and the whole problem went away. She flirted with Derek, got into the house, set the charges. And then she left.

But she had had to come back when she realized Peter hadn’t died, and that was why she looked vaguely familiar to him, although his memory of the days before he died is blurry at best. He must have seen her shortly beforehand. She had probably been at one of the bars he frequented. Maybe tried to talk him up before realizing that it wasn’t going to go anywhere, and she would have to find another way to get her chance.

“Well, you got it, sweetheart,” Peter murmurs, “but unfortunately for you, I came back.”

The question is, what now? How can he kill her without causing some sort of PDS-related panic?

Fire would be best, he decides. He’ll figure out where she’s staying. Then he can knock her out and set her place on fire. When it’s discovered, they’ll assume some of her arson materials or experimentation got the better of her. Chris and Gerard Argent might not believe it, but Peter cares fairly little for what they think.

“Hey, what are you up to?” Derek asks, walking into the kitchen to rinse his paintbrushes.

“Oh, nothing particularly exciting,” Peter says, with a glint in his eye. “Just solving the murder of our family.”

Derek drops everything into the sink. “What?”

“You, completely without meaning to, gave me the last piece of the puzzle.” He puts the drawing he had taken from Derek’s sketchbook and lays it on the table. “Meet the Jaguar.”

Derek’s eyes go wide. “What?”

“I saw her at the debate last night, in the audience. She left with Chris. She’s his sister, Kate. Kate Argent. I tried to find out where she’s employed, but she isn’t. I’m still doing some digging, but I’m certain of one thing. She’s the Jaguar. That explains something that had been bothering me for some time, which was that I couldn’t find any record of the guilty parties having _paid_ our elusive assassin. Because they didn’t. She did it as a favor to her father.”

“No,” Derek says. “She can’t, I mean – it wasn’t like that.”

Peter gives him a look which is somewhat sympathetic. He realizes, belatedly, that this probably comes as quite an unpleasant shock to his nephew. “She used you, Derek. To get into the house. To mess with the wiring and place the explosives.”

Derek opens his mouth to protest, but thinks back. Kate _had_ stayed over the night before the fire. It was the first and only time they had made love. He had called her the next day, and left a message. Then he had died before she had returned it, which apparently is something that she wouldn’t have done. “I can’t – I can’t deal with this,” he said, pushing back from the sink and heading towards his studio.

“Derek.” Peter snags him by the wrist. “It wasn’t your fault. She’s a professional. She undoubtedly did a great deal of research and knew exactly what she was doing.”

“But I still – I’m the one who fell for it,” Derek grits out. “I’m the one who let her in.”

Peter gives him a long, unfathomable look. “I just want you to know that I don’t hold you responsible.”

Derek pulls away, but then lets his head fall back against the wall. “Thanks, Uncle Peter,” he murmurs, before walking away.

Peter gives a little grimace. Unpleasant, but necessary. And now he has work to do.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is somewhat triggery because there's a lot of discussion about people being murdered, and some vague description of sexual assault. Take care of yourselves, everybody!

The first thing Chris needs, Melissa tells him sternly, is sleep. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks or months. He admits, reluctantly, that he has bad dreams. She gives him an Ambien from her extensive first aid kit and tucks him into bed. He sleeps for ten hours, and wakes to the smell of coffee and bacon. He takes a long, hot shower, indulging in it in a way that he hasn’t in a long time. The apartment building he lives in only has hot water for about six minutes at a time, for one thing, but it’s more than that. It’s a luxury, something a military man doesn’t get to have. But he’s done with all of that.

He finds that Melissa has put out some clothes for him so he won’t have to wear his things from the day before. It’s a T-shirt that’s probably Scott’s, a little tight across his shoulders, and jeans that must have belonged to her husband at some point. He gets dressed and goes downstairs to find Melissa fully dressed and cooking pancakes.

“Good morning,” she says to him. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like the dead,” he says, and shakes his head. “Pun not intended.”

Melissa gives a snort of laughter and sets a mug of coffee down on the table. “Two cream, one sugar,” she says.

“You never got me coffee during the Rising,” he says.

“I had enough to worry about,” she replies. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m starved,” he admits.

“Bacon will be a few more minutes,” she says, flipping the pancakes. He lets her cook in silence, relishing the coffee. It’s not like it’s special, amazing coffee, but he enjoys it anyway. “Sorry, but I don’t have any yogurt,” she adds, setting a plate down in front of him.

“I think I can manage for one day,” Chris says.

They eat in silence for several minutes.

“I guess I should drop out of the sheriff’s race,” Chris finally says.

“Oh, hell no!” Melissa says. “If you do that, one of your lieutenants will just step up and take your place. There’s still six weeks until the election. That’s not a lot of time, but with reintegration being the hot issue, they’ll pick up all the people who would have voted for you.”

“Nobody can sign up now,” Chris says. “The deadline’s long past.”

“Oh, I suppose that’s true,” Melissa says, and shakes her head. “But there could still be a write-in candidate, who could get enough support. No, Chris, you stay in this election. Just lie low, don’t issue any more statements. Let people believe whatever they’re going to believe, and we’ll see how Beacon Hills votes.”

That strikes Chris as a much better option than having to go on some sort of record saying that he’s dropping out because he’s been spouting nothing but bullshit for the past several months. He gives a weary nod. What he really needs to do is figure out what to do about Kate. If he’s lucky, she’ll just leave town. But why does he not believe that? She’s always been tenacious. She finishes what she starts. It wouldn’t surprise him if she stuck around just to find and murder more PDSS.

She started the fires. He knows that for a fact, and she basically admitted it to him the night before. So the logical thing to do would be to go tell Sheriff Stilinski about that – if he hasn’t already figured it out. He wonders how Lydia got that information about Kate. Nobody in Beacon Hills knew much about her.

But Allison did. Allison knew her aunt, and if she had mentioned her to Lydia, the redhead was smart enough to put two and two together. They might not know she was responsible for the fires, but once they realized what she had done in Phoenix, they’ll figure that out pretty quickly. So maybe he doesn’t need to do anything.

That was a fucking coward’s way out, though, he has to admit it. Just sitting back and presuming that someone else will figure it out, that someone else will do the dirty work. No. He’ll have to do it himself. Preferably before Kate sets any more houses on fire.

“You’re quiet over there,” Melissa says. “What are you thinking?”

“I want to see Allison,” he says. “But . . .”

When he doesn’t continue, Melissa gently prompts him. “But?”

The idea of it makes his stomach twist. He can picture her in the tavern, the shocked expression on her face when he renounced her. He can picture her at the debate, looking calm and accusing as Lydia put a gun to her head and threatened to kill her. She had known Lydia wouldn’t do it. She just wanted to see how her father would react. “How can I face her?” he asks, staring into the mug of coffee as if it holds the answers to the universe.

“Simple,” Melissa says. “You look at her and say, ‘honey, I fucked up’. Pretty sure that she’ll accept that. Pretty sure that everyone will.”

Chris manages a wan smile at that. “Maybe you’re right.”

Melissa reaches across the table and takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. “I meant what I said, Chris. People here will understand. Everyone has had their own problems readjusting. You think you’re living in some city of saints? Tom had to go to rehab so he didn’t die from alcohol poisoning. Scott has PTSD. We understand, Chris.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. But I don’t know that it’s as simple as just going up on another stage and saying ‘I fucked up’.”

“No, it isn’t. You have to tell everyone what you fucked up and why you fucked it up and what you’re going to do to try to make it better. You have to come up with honest coping strategies, not just for yourself, but for reintegration. You have to apologize to the people that you hurt when you were lashing out. It’s not simple, and it sure as hell won’t be easy. But I think it’ll be worth it.”

Chris nods and rubs a hand over his hair. “Will you – deliver a letter to Garrett Meyers and his daughter for me? Or a video, maybe? I think a video would be better, so they could see I was actually saying it.”

“Sure,” Melissa says. “You want to start with that?”

“Yeah.” Chris lets out a breath. That seems like a good place to start. Just looking into a camera and saying a few words. Saying that he was sorry that he took his pain out on them. He can do that. It’ll be a hell of a lot easier than seeing his daughter. “Okay. Let’s start there.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Stiles is just finishing up a geography lesson when his phone rings. He glances down and sees that it’s Derek, fumbles to answer it, and drops it on the floor. It’s rare for Derek to call him. Though he always seems happy enough to talk, he’s not usually the one who initiates it. Stiles snatches the phone off the floor. “Hey!”

“Hey.” Derek is quiet and sounds subdued. “Can you come over?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Stiles says, and frowns. “Is everything okay?”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Derek says, “No, not really. I mean, there’s nothing drastic going on, I just . . . I really want to see you.”

Stiles nearly drops the phone again. “Yeah, sure. Let me just find a ride. I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks,” Derek says, and hangs up without another word.

Stiles calls Lydia and says, “You have to come drive me to Derek’s, he clearly isn’t okay and I need to be there ten minutes ago.”

“Well, I _was_ in the middle of working on my doctoral thesis, but since you asked me so nicely,” Lydia says dryly. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Stiles hates having to wait that long, but there isn’t much he can do about it. He wishes he had a driver’s license, or a car, but he doesn’t. His father has taught him how to drive, in case of an emergency, but there’s no car for him to take. So he paces, and he waits. Lydia is prompt, and he tries not to fret the entire way to the old farmhouse. “You can come in, if you want,” he says.

“No, I actually was working,” Lydia says.

“Okay. Thanks for the ride.” Stiles jumps out of the car and heads inside. He finds Peter at the kitchen table, inhaling the steam from a cup of coffee. “Hey, where’s Derek?”

“In his studio,” Peter says, because of course, where else would he be? Stiles thinks about asking Peter if he knows what’s wrong, but then decides he’d rather hear it from Derek himself. So he just jogs past him and into the studio.

Derek is lying on the sofa with one arm flung over his eyes. He glances up as Stiles comes in, because Stiles is many things, but ‘stealthy’ is not one of them. He sits up and then looks at the floor. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Stiles sits down on the sofa next to him. “Do you . . . want to talk?”

“I don’t know.” Derek stares out into space. “Yeah. I guess so.” But he doesn’t say anything. He just twirls his paintbrush between his fingers. Stiles sits there with him. He’s not good at being quiet and still, never has been, but he does his best. He just wants Derek to know that he’s there, that he’ll stay. Finally, Derek says, “About two weeks before the fire, I met this woman. Katie. We had that kind of, you know, epic romance that you see in movies. The zero to honeymoon sort of thing.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, trying to pretend that this news of Derek’s probable heterosexuality doesn’t crush his dreams. He reminds himself firmly that one love affair with a woman does not a heterosexual make. “Okay.”

“It was like . . . wild and intense. You know? I was at an art showing of my mother’s, and she had let me bring a few pieces. Katie came over and started talking to me about one of them, and she really knew her stuff, and it was like being hit by lightning. You know, one minute we’re talking about the use of lighting in a landscape, the next we were making out in a supply closet. I called her the next day and we talked for hours and she was just . . . I thought she was perfect.”

Stiles is quiet, because he doesn’t know what happened to Katie, but given everything that happened in the intervening years, it probably wasn’t good. If Derek is about to tell him that the love of his life was killed, he’ll have to keep his own feelings to himself.

“Turns out,” Derek says slowly, “that Katie was a professional assassin, who used me to get into my house and fuck with our circuit breaker, burning our house down.”

Stiles’ jaw drops. “No,” he says, in true movie drama style, without even meaning to.

“I didn’t know. I had no idea. I guess it’s sort of her MO, according to Peter, who’s spent the last few months putting all of this together. He knew that the fire hadn’t been an accident, that we’d been targeted because of the work he and my dad were doing on that case. But God . . .” Derek chokes. “There were _kids_ in the house. If someone wanted to assassinate my dad and Peter, why kill all of us? It’s not – it’s not _fair_.”

Stiles reaches over and grips his hand tightly. “My guess,” he says, as gently as possible, “is because she’s a psychopath.”

“Yeah.” Derek lets out a shuddering breath. “Boy, I sure can pick ‘em.”

Stiles rubs his back and lets him breathe for a few minutes.

“I’ve always had the worst luck with girls,” Derek says glumly. “You know that? The first girl I kissed, when I was fifteen? Her name was Paige. Ten minutes after I kissed her, she started complaining of a headache. Half an hour later she was unconscious and intubated because she had a seizure. Turned out she had spinal meningitis and she was in the hospital for three months. She wouldn’t even look at me after that.

“Then in high school, I really liked this girl named Braeden. I asked her to go to the prom with me, and she said yes. The night before prom, she was in a car accident and broke both her legs. I figured I was cursed. I didn’t date again until after my first year of college. Then I dated Jennifer. You know Jennifer – from the support group.”

“You dated her?” Stiles asks, surprised.

“Yeah. We dated for three months. She’s a teacher, and she likes art, and we got along really well. The night we slept together for the first time, afterwards I’m trying to do the whole suave ‘was it good for you’ thing, and she looks at me all wide-eyed and says, ‘I think I’m a lesbian.’”

“Oh my God,” Stiles groaned.

“I didn’t date for another three _years_ after that. I finally meet a wonderful girl who I’m convinced is ‘the one’, and she burns down my house and kills almost my entire family. I’m fucking _cursed_.”

“Maybe you should try dating guys instead,” Stiles blurts out. Derek blinks at him, and he has what feels like an eternity to mull over exactly how insensitive a comment that was. Derek’s just told him that his family was murdered, that his one true love had betrayed him, and he responded with _that_. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” he says. “That was the stupidest thing I could have possibly – ” he manages, and then Derek’s mouth is on his, cutting off his words with a startled ‘mmf!’

He never got kissed when he was alive, so he doesn’t know if this is what it’s supposed to feel like, but he knows one thing: he _loves_ it. He’s pretty sure that he could spend eternity kissing Derek. The other man has him by the front of the shirt and has pulled their bodies together and Stiles is practically in his lap and it’s the best day of his life and afterlife combined.

When Derek finally lets him go, Stiles breathes out, “Wow. Wowwwww.”

Derek scowls at him, but it’s his cute, embarrassed, happy scowl. “Very articulate.”

“I don’t have to be articulate after something that awesome,” Stiles says, and kisses him back. It’s slower this time, a little quieter, both of them settling into it. “I really wanna date you,” he says.

“Okay,” Derek says softly.

“I promise not to burn your house down or catch meningitis,” Stiles says.

“Okay,” Derek says again.

“I _definitely_ know I’m not a lesbian.”

“ _Okay_ , I said,” Derek says, but now he’s laughing. He leans forward, his thumb rubbing over Stiles’ cheek before he kisses him again. When he pulls away, he’s no longer smiling. “Thank you,” he says, pressing his forehead against Stiles’. “I don’t think I would have been able to handle this if you hadn’t be here.”

“Then I’m really glad I came back,” Stiles says, twining his fingers in Derek’s hair. He understands what Lydia and Scott had been trying to tell him about love. This was one hundred and ten percent worth it, even if he spent the rest of eternity a virgin. “I don’t really know much about dating.”

“Me neither,” Derek says, with a smile that’s almost shy. “We’ll have to figure it out together.”

“How do you feel about cuddling?”

“I’m very into cuddling,” Derek says, straight-faced.

“Yeah? Really?”

“Yeah. Come here.” Derek sinks against the cushions and pulls Stiles into his lap. Stiles curls up against his chest and Derek wraps his arms around the younger man, and it’s everything that Stiles dreamed it would be.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

Chris looks up as there’s a brief knock on his door that sounds annoyed somehow. He pulls back, out of the refrigerator, and goes to answer it. He should really get a better place, now that he’s going to try to become a productive member of society again. Not that he has any idea how he’s going to do that. If he doesn’t win the election – and God, he hopes he doesn’t – he’s jobless and penniless. He can’t rely on charity anymore, not if he’s going to endorse reintegration as soon as the election is over. The people who have supported him in the past will desert him.

That’s another problem that he’s going to need to deal with. He needs to call his lieutenants together, sit down with them, and have a talk about how they need to step up and support the PDSS coming home. Nobody’s going to be happy with that, and he expects they won’t agree or change their ways. But he has to at least say it. He’s encouraged them down the wrong road too long to leave without a word.

When he pulls the door open, he’s somehow not surprised to see Kate standing there. “What?” he asks.

“I left some things here. Can I come in?”

Somewhat reluctantly, Chris stands back to let her in. He watches her silently while she goes into the living room and takes a few books, drops them into her backpack. Then she opens a drawer and withdraws a .38, checking the chamber before tucking it into the back of her pants.

“There’s a six pack of your beer in the fridge,” Chris tells her.

“Thanks.” Kate walks past him to pick it up.

“Are you going back to Phoenix?” Chris asks, knowing that there’s at least a fifty percent chance that whatever answer he gets will be a lie.

“Nope,” she says. “Nothing left to do there. Heading inland. California’s too fucking liberal for me. I’ve heard they want HVF veterans in Utah.”

Chris nods slowly. He won’t convince her that she’s wrong about PDSS. To be fair, he doesn’t know if she even believes half of what she says about them, or if it’s all just a convenient excuse for her to hunt down sentient beings and murder them without repercussions. He doesn’t know what else to say. Should he wish her luck? Tell her to be careful, to stay safe? Tell her that the sooner she leaves, the happier he’ll be?

Finally, he says, “If they come ask me questions about the fires, I’ll tell them the truth.”

“Do whatever you want, Chris,” Kate says. “Nobody can prove anything. Unless you’re wearing a wire,” she adds, and flashes him a brilliant smile.

Chris wonders what she would do if he said he was. Questions better not answered. “Take care of yourself,” he says.

Kate leans up to embrace him, and pats his chest in a friendly, sisterly mannerly. He’s still wearing his fatigues, because at this point that’s literally all he owns. He needs to buy some new clothes. With the money he doesn’t have. “See you around, big bro,” she says, and turns and leaves the apartment, closing the door after herself.

Chris stares at the closed door for a long time. He wonders why he doesn’t believe for a moment that she’s actually leaving.

If she’s going to go after anyone, it’s going to be Allison. He knows that, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Melissa had said that she was staying with the Stilinskis. After some thought, Chris decides he wants to make sure she’s in some sort of protective custody. That all of them are. He picks up his phone and calls the station and asks for the Sheriff.

They’ve obviously told him who it is, because his tone is cautious but not unfriendly when he picks up. “Captain Argent, what can I do for you?”

Chris reminds himself that Tom, of all people, knows what it’s like to lose a wife and a child. That Tom won’t blame him or criticize him for his coping mechanisms, or lack thereof. “I . . . have some concerns about . . . the safety of the PDSS in town. I know that sounds strange coming from me. But I was wondering if you’d have some time to sit down and talk with me about it.”

“Sure,” Tom says, and Chris is relieved that he doesn’t ask what Chris means over the phone, or mock him for his sudden concern. “I’ve got a meeting in ten, and it’ll take about an hour. You want to drop by the station after that?”

“Yeah. Where – where is Allison?”

Tom’s voice is a little wary, but he answers. “They’re having some sort of reintegration rally downtown, and I’m pretty sure she’s there. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of security there.”

Chris thinks about it, and decides that Kate wouldn’t strike somewhere so public. That’s not how she rolls. “Okay. I’ll see you soon, then.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The Rally for Reintegration is a testament to exactly how much Lydia can get down in twenty-four hours when she puts her mind to it. People have come from over an hour away to gather in Beacon Hills’ metaphorical town square (which is actually a park) and talk about reintegration. There are banners and refreshments and different stands where people are talking about things like what makeup to use and career advancement for PDSS and getting them back into the school system.

There are also a fair number of protestors. Only one or two in the morning, but word traveled and before long half the HVF from the entire county is there with signs and loudspeakers. Police have come out in response and are keeping a firm line established between the two groups. The atmosphere is tense, but so far, there hasn’t been any violence.

The rally is in full swing by the time Stiles gets there, and he’s immediately spotted and shoved up onto the stage. He swallows hard at all the people staring at him, particularly the protestors with their signs on the other side of the street, and decides to keep it short and sweet. “I just wanted to say that I’m really glad to be here,” he says. “I know that things haven’t been easy for anybody, but Beacon Hills is awesome and I wouldn’t want to reintegrate anywhere else.”

There are a lot of cheers, and a lot of angry boos and hisses from across the street, shouts of ‘murderer’ and ‘get out of our town’ which frankly don’t bother him a bit. He’s getting used to that sort of thing. He shoves the microphone at somebody else and ducks back off the stage.

Things are going pretty well, and they’re trying to stay out of the limelight, letting people with friends and family still in the facilities take the stage most of the time. Attack survivors and people who lost loved ones during the Rising come up and talk about how important they think it is to move on, so everyone can heal. Lydia gives her science presentation again and takes a ton of questions.

Around six PM, things break up. The group of them wind up sitting in the park. The living are eating ice cream. Stiles tries a spoonful but throws up in the grass. Lydia sighs and makes more notes in her laptop.

“So, you and Derek, let’s hear all about it,” Scott says, elbowing Stiles in the ribs.

Stiles just grins back, happy, beyond the point of caring about blushing or not blushing. “He is an A plus cuddler. Totally. I could cuddle with him all day.”

The girls coo.

“We actually had this long talk about how, you know, we can’t have sex,” Stiles says, “so we created this whole list of things we _can_ do, like sleep in the same bed, or wash each other’s hair, or backrubs, or, you know. That sort of thing.”

“That sounds really nice,” Lydia says. “We should make a list like that, Alli,” she adds, but gets no response. “Allison?” she asks, and everyone looks over at where Allison is sitting on the blanket. She’s staring off at a small group of people on the sidewalk near the park’s entrance. They’re posing by the Rally for Reintegration banner, and one of them is taking a photograph. “Allison, what is it?”

“I – ” Allison sucks in a breath. “Oh, oh my God, I can’t – ”

“Allison!” Stiles is on his feet as she clutches at her head. “What’s wrong?”

“No!” Allison screams, flinching away. “No, don’t touch me!”

“What the fu – ” Stiles begins, and at that moment the young man snaps the picture, and there’s a momentary flash of light in the dimming evening. The flash of the camera. He remembers Allison talking in her sleep about those flashes of light. His eyes go wide and he turns to see the young man glance at them quizzically. “Oh my God,” he breathes, hastily moving to block the other man’s view. “I know him.”

“What’s going on?” Scott asks, as Lydia crouches in front of Allison, who’s now rocking herself back and forth and moaning.

“We need to get to the station, right now,” Stiles says. “Lydia – help me get her up. Scott, you can drive us.”

“Sure, okay,” Scott says, still bewildered but willing to cooperate. They get Allison bundled into the car. She’s whimpering softly, and Lydia sits in the back with her, hugging her tightly.

“What’s going on?” Lydia asks, her voice a little higher-pitched than normal with worry.

Stiles twists around in his seat so he can see Allison. He reaches out and gets a hand underneath her chin, tilting her face up. “Allison,” he says softly, and she flinches away. He holds onto her. “Allison, you’re safe here. Come on. You’re okay. You’re with us, you’re okay.” He keeps repeating himself while she stares at him, shaking, until he sees some sort of coherence return to her gaze. “Was that him?” he asks.

Allison swallows and one hand goes to her throat. “It was him,” she whispers.

Lydia’s head whips around. “Was that – we have to go back, we have to – ”

“It’s okay, Lydia, I know who it was,” Stiles says. “He fucking tased me a few weeks ago, I’m not going to forget that. We have to tell my dad.”

They get to the sheriff’s station a few minutes later. Lydia helps Allison out of the car, but she’s still trembling violently, and tears are running down her face. They get her inside, and the secretary says, “Oh, he’s in a meeting – ”

“It’s super important. Conference room?” Stiles asks, and then keeps walking without waiting for permission. He pulls open the door and sees his father standing there with Chris Argent.

Allison sees them at the same time. “Daddy!” she wails, and throws herself at her father, uncaring about any past transgressions. He looks at her with a stunned expression, but then his arms come up around her like he can’t help himself. Moments later, he’s holding her tightly, cheek pressed against her hair, clutching at her like he’s afraid she might vanish.

“What’s going on?” Tom asks.

“We, uh, we kind of ran into the guy who . . .” Stiles doesn’t want to use the word kill or murder right in front of Chris, so he’s not sure what to say.

Allison solves the problem for him by looking up at her father with wide eyes. “It was him, he – ” She nearly chokes on the words. “He offered me a ride home and I know not to accept rides home from strangers but I _knew_ him, he was in my biology class and he seemed nice so I – ” She starts to cry. “So I said okay and then we weren’t going home and I tried to get out of the car but he locked the door and it wouldn’t unlock and he threw my purse out the window so I couldn’t call for help and he – he brought me to this old shabby hotel and he, he said, if I did what he said he wouldn’t hurt me so I – ” Her words break off into sobs and they all stand there, riveted and uncomfortable, wanting to support her but not wanting to hear, as she pours out the story of what he had done to her. Of the way he had threatened her, had forced her to undress and pose for photographs, of how he had assaulted and finally killed her.

Chris stands silent through all of it, his body trembling, and he rocks her back and forth without saying a word. When Allison finally trails off, he still doesn’t speak, but just stands there like a statue.

“Stiles,” Tom says quietly. “Who is it?”

“Matt Daehler,” Stiles says. “Jesus, he was just here a couple weeks ago, remember, he – he hit me with the stun gun after Harris tried to kill me.”

“I remember him,” Tom says. He’s about to say something else when Chris releases Allison and gently guides her into Lydia’s arms. “Chris, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Pretty sure this is gonna be the smartest thing I’ve ever done, Sheriff,” Chris says, checking to make sure his gun is loaded. “Pretty sure that if you were in my shoes, you’d do the same.”

“Listen to me, Chris,” Tom says, reaching out and gripping his shoulder. “You’re right. I would. But that wouldn’t make it the right thing to do. If you go kill Matt Daehler, you’re going to jail. Even if the jury is sympathetic, you’ll still go to jail. And you can’t do that. Your daughter needs you. Do you understand that, Chris? Your daughter _needs_ you. She needs you in her life a hell of a lot more than she needs Matt Daehler dead. I’m going to go arrest him, and we’ll make sure that justice is served. Okay?”

Chris hesitates. Allison reaches out and grips his forearm. “Dad, please,” she whispers. “Please don’t leave me.”

His face twists in an effort not to cry, and he draws Allison back into an embrace. “Okay, sweetheart,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *innocent whistling*

 

“You guys just stay right here, okay?” Tom says, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder and giving Chris a nod. “Allison, once you’re feeling a little better, I’m going to have Parrish come take your statement. I’ll go pick Matt up.”

Allison nods and sniffles and tucks her head against her father’s chest. He sits down as Tom leaves, pulling Allison into his lap, just holding her. Lydia takes Scott and Stiles each by an arm and draws them out of the room to give them some privacy. “I wonder what Captain Argent is even doing here,” Scott says, frowning at the closed conference room.

“At least he isn’t being an asshole to Allison,” Lydia says, sinking into a chair and rubbing at her thigh.

“No shit,” Stiles says. He pulls out his phone and starts playing a game while they wait. It’s about half an hour before his father returns with Matt in handcuffs. He’s protesting volubly as Tom drags him into the station’s lone interrogation room. Chris obviously sees them going through, because he comes out of the conference room a bare moment later with his arm around Allison.

“Is that him?” he asks, and Stiles just nods. He tries to picture Matt as a ruthless killer. It takes surprisingly little effort. Chris pushes past them, letting go of Allison, to the little room that the interrogation can be viewed from.

“Sir, you really shouldn’t . . .” Parrish protests, coming in behind them.

“Shut up, Jordan,” Chris growls, and Parrish shuts up.

It’s a painful interrogation. The crime took place three years ago, so when Sheriff Stilinski asks where he was that night, he just says, “Geez, that was a long time ago. I guess I was probably at home. I would’ve been sixteen, you know.”

“We have someone who places you at the scene of the crime,” Tom says.

“Someone whose testimony is admissible in court?” Matt asks, studying his fingernails.

Tom’s jaw sets. PDSS can’t testify to their own murders, and everyone in the room knows it. “That’s not important. With the other evidence we have – ”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Tom rubs a hand over his face. “Look, son,” he says. “I know that you think you’re really clever. I know that you think that since this happened three years ago, there’s no way you can be proven guilty now. But that isn’t the case. And your attitude about this is only going to make things worse. So why don’t you cooperate? Because I know you kept something. I can see that on your face. You told yourself to get rid of everything. But there’s _something_ that you kept, a single photograph, a bracelet, a lock of hair. There’s something. And I _will_ find it, son, and then you’re going to go to jail for a very long time.”

Matt shrugs. “Yeah, good luck with that. Why don’t you go get your warrants, and I’ll call my dad’s lawyer, and we can revisit this in a few hours.”

There’s a few moments of silence, and then Tom nods and says, “Okay, if that’s how you want to play it.” He gets up, getting Matt by his handcuffed wrists and pulling him to his feet. He undoes the cuffs, then steers him out of the interrogation room to take him to the holding cells.

Chris shoves Allison at Lydia and pushes out of the small room they’ve been watching from. “Captain, don’t,” Parrish says, trying to stop him.

“You son of a bitch,” Chris says, grabbing Matt from the sheriff and pushing him up against the wall. He has his gun out of its holster and pressed against Matt’s temple a bare moment later. “I know what you did, you bastard, and if you’re smart you’ll tell the cops and go to jail, because if you _don’t_? You’re going to be looking over your shoulder for me the rest of your life, you piece of shit, because I’m not going to let you murder my daughter and walk away.”

“Captain, you’re upset,” Matt says, in a voice that’s both calm and condescending. “You should let me go.”

“I’ll let you go when hell freezes over, you – ”

“Besides,” Matt remarks, leaning his head slightly to the side so he can see Allison behind them, “your daughter looks okay to me. Actually,” he says with a smirk, “she looks great.”

It’s the smirk that does it. Tom has just enough time to shout, “Chris, _don’t_ ,” but it’s too late. His face twists in agony and he pulls the trigger.

The noise, amplified by the small hallway, is deafening. People both living and undead flinch away from it. Matt slumps against the wall with half of his head missing. Chris just stands there for a moment, shoulders heaving. Then he walks over to the nearest chair and sinks into it, dropping the gun onto the table and bracing his head in his hands.

It takes Stiles only a few moments to decide what to do. He walks over to Chris and takes the gun from the table. Then he walks over and kneels beside Matt’s body, carefully placing the gun in his hand. “Here’s what happened,” he says, turning to face the others. “Dad, you were taking Matt from interrogation to the holding cells. He broke free from you and grabbed Captain Argent’s gun. He tried to get us to let him go, but realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get free, so he shot himself in the head. That’s what we all saw. Right?”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Scott nods and says, “That’s definitely what I saw.”

“Me too,” Lydia agrees.

“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy,” Parrish drawls.

Stiles looks at his father, who’s still standing there, silent and disapproving. “That’s what happened. Right, Dad?”

Tom looks at Stiles, looks at Matt’s body, and looks at the way Allison is curled into Lydia’s embrace. Then he nods. “Yeah, I guess so,” he says, and shakes his head.

Chris finally looks up, and he stares at Stiles. “Why are you protecting me?” he asks.

“Because Allison needs you,” Stiles says, and then hesitates. “And this town needs you, too. It needs you to be . . . be the hero that everyone talks about.”

Chris gets to his feet shakily. He heads over to Allison, but pauses and claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder as he goes by. He draws Allison back into an embrace, murmurs low into her ear about how Matt is never going to hurt her again, about how he’ll keep her safe.

Tom shepherds everyone back into the conference room and goes back to deal with the mess that is Matt’s body. They sit around awkwardly for several minutes before Tom comes back in, pushing a hand through his hair. “I’m going to be busy with this for a while,” he says. “You guys should – ”

“Wait,” Chris says, looking up. “There’s something I have to tell you.” He lets out a harsh breath, then meets Tom’s gaze and holds it. “My sister, Kate . . . she set the fires. I didn’t . . . I should have said something earlier, but . . . I couldn’t. She was the only family I . . . it doesn’t matter. I should have stopped her.”

“It’s all right, Chris,” Tom says quietly. “I think we get it.” He lets out a breath. “Kids, I think you should head back to Derek’s. She doesn’t know where it is, and I know Peter’s put in a damned good security system, so you’ll be safe there. Okay?”

Chris’ arms tighten around Allison. “My daughter is coming home with me.”

“That’s fine, Chris,” Tom says, almost soothingly, like he’s talking to a wild animal, prone to lashing out. Nobody is going to be separating Chris Argent from his daughter any time soon. “Parrish, will you follow the kids and make sure they get there okay?” he asks, and Parrish nods. “Chris, I’ll need your sister’s address. I’ll get some people together and we’ll go pick her up.”

“Okay,” Chris says.

Tom reaches out and gives Stiles a hug. “You stay at Derek’s until I come get you, okay?”

“Okay, Dad,” Stiles says with a nod. “Fine by me.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It takes time to explain everything to Derek. Stiles had asked him to come to the rally, but he hadn’t wanted to draw attention to the fact that he was alive after realizing that Kate was in town and very well might come back to kill the rest of their family. “The one saving grace,” he had said that morning, “is that she doesn’t know that Peter came back. Since he was her actual target to begin with, she’d almost certainly take another shot at him if she found out.”

That, he thinks is why Peter hasn’t just said ‘fuck it’ to everything and been walking around town without a care as to who saw him. Derek had wondered about that for some time. Peter wasn’t the type to care what people thought of him, and he could take care of himself. From the very beginning, Derek had been surprised that Peter wasn’t just going to the library and the movie theater and doing whatever he wanted.

He had only told Stiles the details of what had happened to his family, but Stiles had at least given the others an overview. This makes things a little awkward when they show up and all try not to stare at him or ask questions. It’s one thing to face someone who died in an accident, but quite another to think about someone having been murdered.

“God, guys, stop staring at me,” he mutters.

“Sorry,” Scott and Kira immediately apologize in unison. Derek just rolls his eyes.

“My dad just wants us to hang out here for a while,” Stiles tells him. “I mean, which actually sounds a little funny since we know for a fact that Kate would try to kill you if given half a chance. But she doesn’t know where you live, and you’ve got all that really cool security, so we’re as safe as houses out here. Or . . . some other really safe thing, since the houses around here really haven’t been that safe.”

“Stiles, stop talking,” Derek says.

“Right. Shutting up.”

Derek surprises all of them by smiling at Stiles, then putting an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a half-hug and pressing a kiss into his temple. “Speaking of which, Erica’s parents found a new place. So that’s good.”

“Probably good she got out of here to somewhere less, I don’t know, targeted by assassins,” Stiles says, and Derek rolls his eyes.

Peter interrupts the moment when he walks in and says, “Kate could show up with the entire HVF, and she’d be hard pressed to get to any of us here. For one thing, there’s only one road that leads to this clutch of houses, and I have it monitored by security cameras. Secondly, there’s electric fencing, which I’ve now closed and turned on. And lastly, we’re in a clearing on a hill, so we have the high ground.”

“Tactically sound,” Camden says, elbowing by Peter and going for a bottle of orange juice in the refrigerator. “Who wants dinner? I’m cooking.”

“We ate already,” Kira says. “Thanks, though.”

“Hey, speak for yourself, I could eat again,” Scott says. Cam gives a snort of laughter and shakes his head.

“How’s your experiments going?” Peter asks Lydia.

“We’ve gotten most of the simple carbohydrates down in small quantities,” Lydia says. “Well, liquid ones. We’ve had a lot of trouble with protein, though. It doesn’t digest easily.” She starts to talk about the human digestive tract in such detail that nobody except Peter knows what she’s talking about.

“You’re going to put us off our appetite,” Cam says.

“Not possible with Scott, he can eat any time, any place,” Kira says, laughing.

“So things seem okay with Chris?” Derek asks Stiles, sitting down on the sofa and pulling Stiles down to half-sit in his lap.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I mean, I don’t know how things are going to play out with the election or anything, but he was really, just, really worried about Allison. I think he’s totally over that whole ‘this isn’t really my daughter’ thing.”

“Good,” Derek says.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“It’s kind of, uh . . .” Chris’ voice trails off as he turns the key in the lock and lets Allison into his sparely decorated, tiny apartment. “It’s on the small side. There’s only one bedroom and pretty much nothing in the kitchen works. Not that the latter will bother you, I guess.”

“What happened to the house?” Allison asks.

It takes Chris a minute to answer. “I sold it. Needed the money. Well, the town needed the money. We were putting up electric fences in the forest in some of the areas where there had been a lot of rot – I mean – rabid PDSS attacks. The town didn’t have it in the budget, so . . .”

“So you spent your own money,” Allison says, leaning into his embrace. “That’s like you.” She laughs and adds, “Who wanted the house, though? I mean, given the situation in Beacon Hills.”

Chris shakes his head a little. “Believe it or not, as bad as things were here, there were plenty of places where it was a lot worse. We got the HVF up and running pretty soon after the Rising and secured our borders. Not that things were easy, but we were on the offensive a lot of the time, driving them away from Beacon Hills, instead of driving them out after they had gotten here.”

“Because of you,” Allison says, smiling at him.

“Well. Yes, I guess so. At least a little.” Chris rubs a hand over his hair. “We should – we need to talk about some of that.”

“Dad, it doesn’t bother me,” Allison says. “I know that you were just trying to protect people.”

“It’s not that.” Chris looks around like he’s thinking about trying to make an escape. “I, um. I don’t have any chairs. Sorry.”

Allison laughs, and sits down on the floor, Indian-style. Chris sits down next to her, leaning against the wall. He takes out his gun and unloads the clip, dismantling it slowly so he has something to do with his hands. “I still advocated killing rotters after we found out there was a cure,” he says. “To me, it was a simple risk-to-reward assessment. We didn’t have what we needed to capture them. Not without risk to ourselves.”

“That makes sense, really,” Allison says. “I’m not just saying that to make you feel better, honest. I mean, I know it wasn’t our fault or anything, but we _were_ attacking people, hurting people. And I know you had limited supplies and you had to do what you could with what you had. Plus, some of the PDSS couldn’t even be saved, I mean, we don’t all respond to the neurotriptyline, so – ”

“I killed your mother,” Chris interrupts her. Allison stops talking abruptly. “She got bitten in a fight. Back then, we all thought – that turned you into a rotter yourself. So I – she asked me to shoot her and I did.”

Allison lets out a slow breath. For a minute, she can’t talk. “I’m so – I’m so sorry, Dad. That you – you had to go through that.”

Chris looks over at her. “Aren’t you angry?”

“Why would I be angry at you?” Allison frowns at him. “You were trying to help her. To save her. I mean, you didn’t know any better. And I know a lot of people thought the same thing. I mean, some people _still_ think that. God, Dad, this makes – I really understand better now why you had so much trouble with this. Why you didn’t want to believe it.”

Chris lets his head hang down. “You are – ” He nearly chokes on the words. “You’re just as amazing as you were the day you disappeared. God, I love you so much.”

Allison leans against him, nestling against his chest. “I love you too. I’m so glad that I’m home. I don’t care if it’s just a tiny apartment, if I have to sleep on the floor, if we don’t have a lot of money. I’m just really glad that I’m home with you.”

“Me too,” Chris says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pressing her face into his chest.

“Hey, ow,” Allison says, and then laughs, pulling away. “I don’t know why I said ‘ow’, it’s not like it actually hurt. I guess we’ll call it an ‘ow’ of surprise. Anyway, something in your pocket was jabbing me in the cheek.” She reaches into the shirt pocket of his fatigues, pulling out a small piece of black metal. “What’s this?”

“I don’t – ” Chris takes it out of her hand. He frowns, looking at it more closely. Then he sucks in a breath. “It’s a bug. A listening device.”

“You didn’t know it was in your pocket?” Allison asks.

“No.” Chris thinks back to Kate patting his chest that morning and groans sharply. “Jesus. Kate put it there when she left earlier today. She knew I knew about the fires she had set, and that I might tell Sheriff Stilinski, and then I went and did just that. And she knows.”

“And she knows where we sent them – that we sent them to Derek’s,” Allison says. Her eyes go wide. “She knows about Peter.”

“Peter? Peter who?” Chris asks.

“Peter Hale, Derek’s uncle – oh God, you don’t know about any of this and it’s going to upset you, but – Kate doesn’t just kill PDSS, Dad, she was – before that, she – ”

“She was an assassin,” Chris says, putting the pieces together. “I thought Lydia was being metaphorical, or just talking about what Kate had done after the Rising, but she wasn’t, was she. My sister is a killer. And . . . if you’re bringing that up now, talking about the Hales . . . that means she was responsible for the Hale house fire.”

Allison nods. “Derek’s father was a lawyer, and there was some court case, something about legal corruption and trading favors, and Peter was helping him on it, and – Kate was hired to shut the two of them up, and decided to make it look like an accident by burning the house down. Derek told Stiles that, and Stiles sort of gave the rest of us some of the details, and – I guess since Peter didn’t die in the fire, then she killed him afterwards, but she didn’t know he had come back as a PDSS and he can incriminate the – oh, God, I can tell you all about it later but the important part is that we have to let them know, like, right now.”

Chris nods and gets to his feet, helping Allison up beside him. “But the good news is, she doesn’t know where to find them, right? I mean, I certainly don’t know where they’re staying, and I pulled just about every string I had trying to locate all the PDSS in town.”

“Yeah, that’s good,” Allison says, taking out her phone. “I’ll call Stiles if you’ll call Tom,” she adds, and Chris agrees.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“What? No, Allison, slow down – ” Stiles says, and then goes quiet for a long minute while the others look up from their dinner anxiously. “Shit. Really? Yeah, okay. Did you talk to my dad? Okay, sure. Yeah, but we’re fine out here, there hasn’t been any sort of noise or alarms or anything. Yeah. Go see my dad, he’ll take care of everything.”

He hangs up the phone, and Scott asks, “What’s going on?”

Stiles looks up and directs his comments mostly to Derek and Peter. “Apparently Kate slipped some sort of listening device into Chris’ pocket when she saw him earlier today. So she overheard Chris tell my dad that she was responsible for the fires. Maybe not such a big deal, but she also heard my dad telling me to get out here with the rest of you, where we’d be safe. And she heard my dad telling me to tell Peter to ramp up the security.”

“Ah,” Peter says. “So it comes down to that. Well, it was always bound to happen.”

Lydia looks between the different people at the table. “But we’re okay, right?”

Peter gives a little shrug. “I’m sure Kate Argent would dearly like to come out here and murder each and every one of us, but as long as she doesn’t know where we are, we’re safe.”

“Oh my God,” Derek says suddenly, and pulls out his phone.

“What?” Stiles asks, alarmed. “What is it?”

Derek is already touching buttons, and he looks up at Stiles and says, “ _Cora_. I tried, tried to call her earlier to see if she wanted to come over for dinner, but she didn’t pick up. I didn’t think much of it, so I just texted her but she hasn’t texted me back and I figured she was just busy but what if she – ”

“Oh, Jesus,” Stiles says. “I’ll call my dad so he can send someone over to check on her.”

“I told Cora specifically that if anyone tried to pressure her into revealing our whereabouts, that she should tell them,” Peter says. “I didn’t want her getting hurt.”

“Which means that people could be arriving any minute.” Camden stands up. “Who else here can handle a gun? Scott, you’re good for it, anyone else?”

“I’m okay with a handgun but I don’t have a lot of experience with a rifle,” Kira says.

“Okay. I’ll take the front of the house; Scott, you set up in the garage and watch the back. Isaac, you’ll be with me. Kira, with Scott. C’mon, Scott, I’ve got a semi-auto that you can borrow.” Cam waves over his shoulder for Scott to follow him.

Lydia turns to Derek and says, “While they’re setting up. We can make some additional defensive measures. Get me anything chemical you have in the house. Bleach, ammonia, hydrogen peroxide – if you have any paint thinner or turpentine in your studio, get me that, too. Stiles, help me look in the kitchen for things like vinegar and chili powder. Let’s cook up some unpleasant surprises for our guests.”

“Okay.” Stiles starts rummaging around in the cabinets. Peter calmly takes out his laptop and sits down. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, primarily, I’m going to watch the surveillance camera so I can alert the others if someone shows up,” Peter says. “But I’m also going to take all the documentation I’ve gathered on the fire and the evidence of corruption that Aaron and I were able to put together, which I’ve held onto all this time in case I needed it to lure the arsonist in, and e-mail it to a few people. Like your father, and Alex Mahealani, and some other contacts I know. Because if I go down, I’m not going alone.”

“Hell, post it on Facebook and Twitter,” Stiles says. “Hashtag how-do-you-like-me-now-bitches.”

Lydia gives a snort of laughter. “You have to feel for a hard-working assassin whose victims literally came back from the dead.”

“Yeah. Must be rough to be her. Oh hey, cayenne pepper. How are we going to make this stuff into an aerosol?”

“Science, obviously,” Lydia says.

“Better make it quick,” Peter says, looking up from his laptop. “They’re here.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lights, camera... action!

 

Peter’s barely finished speaking when the lights go out. “They’ve cut the power,” he says, calmly closing his laptop and getting to his feet. “I’m going to go get the generator running. It won’t be enough to power the electric fences, but we’ll at least be able to have some lights inside and such.”

“Jesus, he talks too much,” Derek mutters, as his uncle leaves the room. He checks his phone and grimaces, which Stiles takes to mean that he still hasn’t heard from Cora. “What now, Lydia?”

“Ammonia,” she says, not looking up from the measuring she’s doing, and he hands it to her. Stiles paces around the room, thinking about the territory. The fences are fairly far from the house, so they won’t be here immediately, but they’re on their way.

“Wish we had some balloons, we could fill them with the pepper and throw them at people’s faces,” Stiles says.

“Oh, sweetie,” Lydia says, “we’re going to do something much better than that. Derek, do you have a fan?”

“Uh, yeah,” Derek says. “Actually. It’s hard for me to sleep without some sort of white noise, so I – where do you want it?”

“Take it to that big bay window at the front of the house. Stiles and I will finish this up and meet you there.”

Derek nods, presses a quick kiss into Stiles’ temple, and then jogs out of the room. Stiles waits while Lydia continues to mix things in a large bucket that Peter supplied her with. “Once we have the reaction going, we’ll use the fan to blow it out the window and onto the field,” she says. “That ought to fuck them right up.”

“That’s my girl,” Stiles says, grinning. Then his head jerks around as he hears gunfire from the back of the house.

“Apparently they’re getting too close for Cam’s liking,” Lydia murmurs.

In fact, a few moments later they can hear Camden shouting. He’s got a drill sergeant’s voice that naturally carries, and Stiles doesn’t doubt that everyone can hear it. “Okay, now that I have your attention! You are trespassing onto private property! We are armed and we _are_ willing to shoot! This will be your only warning!”

A few moments of silence pass. Then they hear gunfire from Scott’s end of the house. “They’ve surrounded us,” Stiles says. He grabs his phone and texts Scott. ‘How many?’

It’s about thirty seconds before Scott replies. ‘At least two dozen. The entire remaining HVF, probably.’

“Jesus,” Stiles says.

“It’s fine,” Lydia says. “Help me carry this.”

Stiles nods and grabs the bucket. It’s heavy, and it takes both of them to get it up to the front of the house. Then Stiles has to make a second trip back downstairs for the final ingredients. As soon as Lydia adds them, the mixture starts to froth and bubble. “Don’t get too close,” she says, and adjusts the fan so it’s blowing straight out into the night air.

She’s no sooner done that than there’s a whine of bullets and the window on the other side of the room shatters. “Fuck!” Stiles bites out, as all of them scramble for cover. There’s more shots from Cam’s end of the house, and he hears a cry of pain outside.

The gas from Lydia’s homemade mixture starts to waft over the clearing that the house is in and reach the woods.

“Will this kill them?” Stiles asks curiously.

“No,” Lydia says, then amends, “probably not. Let’s go mix up some pepper bombs in case they get too close to the house and we run out of ammo. As long as the fan keeps running, this reaction will last for a while.”

“Let’s do it,” Stiles says, but at that moment there’s a noise of breaking glass and a whoompf. “Oh shit,” he says, because he knows that noise. It’s the sound of a Molotov cocktail. It happens two, three, four more times. A minute later there’s a hissing sound, and the sprinklers come on.

“Crap, help me cover this,” Lydia says, as water starts to dilute the mixture she made. Derek grabs a table and heaves it over, putting it over the bucket to shield it from the water. They have to lay the fan on its side so it will continue to blow the gas out the window.

“Fuck, Derek, your paintings!” Stiles realizes suddenly.

“Oh, shit,” Derek says, and scrambles for the back of the house. A few more bullets whine by them, and there’s periodic bursts of gunfire from both Scott and Cam. They get into the studio, and Stiles realizes the huge windows leave them very exposed. But there’s nothing he can do about it, or at least nothing he wants to do about it. He knows how hard that Derek has worked on these paintings. “Here, help me grab the tarp,” Derek says, picking up the blue piece of plastic that he stands on while he works. “If we pile them up, then maybe – ”

“No way, the floor’s already soaked,” Stiles says. “Chuck ‘em out the window. It’s only a one story drop, they’ll be fine.” He’s already grabbed a stack of the sketchbooks and has started shoving the window screen out of its frame.

Derek grimaces but agrees. He yanks the cloth covering the one he’s working on off of it, and carries it over to the window. In that moment, he’s glad that most of his works are relatively small. He starts grabbing things and flinging them out like Frisbees, hoping they’ll sail to a relatively safe stop. Stiles sees what he’s doing and does the same. Every now and then a bullet whizzes by, but there’s relatively little fire. Stiles thinks that Lydia went to tell Scott what they were doing, because there’s a lot of gunshots coming from above them. Suppression fire, he thinks.

“Okay, that’s all of them,” Derek says, giving the last one a toss. Moments later, he staggers back with a grunt and knocks Stiles over.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, his voice rising in alarm.

“Yeah. Good thing I’m already dead.” Derek snorts. “Never thought I’d say _that_.”

The two of them crawl out of the studio and slam the door behind them, standing in the narrow hallway that leads to it. There’s a sprinkler right above them, but they’re already soaked. “We should just stay here until it’s over,” Derek says. He checks his phone. “Dead, fuck. It got soaked. God, I hope Cora’s okay.”

“I’m sure she’s fine; your sister is a pint-sized badass,” Stiles says, and swoops in for a kiss, hoping that this will distract Derek. It does. Making out in fake rain is _awesome_ , he decides, as Derek presses him back into the wall and kisses him for all he’s worth, like there’s nothing in the universe to want, as long as he’s kissing Stiles.

“Are you two okay up there?” Lydia shouts.

“We’re fine!” Stiles turns his head so he’s not shouting in Derek’s face.

“Then get down here, we should stay in the central part of the house!”

Stiles huffs, and Derek laughs a little, and it’s silly and stupid because there are people less than a hundred feet away who literally want to kill them, but then they’re both laughing. They make their way down the little staircase and back into the kitchen. Peter and Lydia are waiting there.

“It can’t be much longer before the police get here,” Lydia says, her hands never slowing as she assembles pepper bombs.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He knows that it takes some time to put together a SWAT response, but they can’t take much longer, and if he knows his father, he’s not going to wait for them. “I’m just actually surprised we aren’t already all dead. I mean . . . these people are clearly willing to risk their lives, but they don’t really seem like they’re trying to push forward very much. A few shots here and there, some Molotov cocktails . . .”

He’s quiet for a minute. Peter looks at him, frowning. “What is it?”

There’s a thump, and then Scott and Kira come into the room. “Ran out of ammo,” Scott says, pushing a hand back through his hair. “We never expected to need to withstand a siege, you know? Cam’s running low, too.”

“But they’re not really pressing forward, right?” Stiles says.

“No. Just popping up their heads often enough to make us waste our fire. That gas stuff worked pretty well, though. It got them all off that side of the house, so they’re only coming from the back now. Cam says he can handle it, at least for a few more minutes.”

“But why aren’t they trying to get in?” Stiles presses. “There were only two of you and they knew that. If there are two dozen of them, with one good rush, they could make it to the house.”

“Safer to wait, wear us down,” Derek says.

Stiles shakes his head. “Not with the police on the way, and they have to know that we would have called them as soon as they showed up. We all have cell phones, they don’t have any kind of jammers running. They’re working in a narrow window and they know it, so why . . . unless . . . this wasn’t really about us at all.”

Scott’s eyes go wide. “They’re waiting for the police to show up. There’s only that one road to the house. This isn’t a trap for us. It’s a trap for your dad.”

Stiles grabs his phone, but like Derek’s, it’s soaked and useless. “Is anyone’s phone still – ” he starts, and then realizes it doesn’t matter. His father won’t answer an unfamiliar ringtone, not while he’s driving and in a rush because his son is in danger. “God damn it, I have to – ” Stiles is just about to run, but in that moment he remembers Scott, slumped against the little hill as he gasps for breath, Scott shouting at him for leaving him and getting killed. He knows that if he runs off into he jaws of almost-certain-death again, Scott will never forgive him. “I have to go warn him,” he says, and looks at Scott. “Come with me?”

“You got it, bro,” Scott says.

“The rest of you stay here,” Stiles says, and bolts out of the house. He hopes that at least some of them will listen to him.

There’s no one at the front of the house now, thanks to Lydia’s toxic science, so nobody shoots at them as he runs down the road at full tilt. He sprints down the driveway with Scott on his heels, and then actually a little ahead of him. Asthma or no asthma, Scott’s done a lot of conditioning that Stiles simply hasn’t. But he never gets too far ahead.

They’ve made it about half way back to the road that would actually take them out of the neighborhood when he sees lights on the road, red and blue flashes. He waves his arms frantically and his father’s cruiser comes to a stop.

“Stiles, what the hell – ” Tom says, exiting the vehicle, and Stiles just flings himself on top of his father, knocking him down.

They’ve barely hit the ground when a roar of gunfire goes off above them. It’s so loud that Stiles thinks he’s going to be deafened by it, automatically putting up his hands to shield his ears. Tom swears and rolls them both behind the car, and Stiles clings to him, waiting for it to be over and hoping against hope that Scott made it somewhere safe.

When the gunfire finally stops, Stiles thinks that people are shouting, but all he can really hear is ringing.

His father must hear something that satisfies him, though, because he drags them both to their feet. The car is riddled with bullet holes, and there’s smoke everywhere; everything smells of cordite. He has no idea what’s happening and why they stopped firing, but then Allison runs up to them and he realizes Chris has arrived. Another car has pulled up behind his father’s, and Chris is standing there with a rifle. “Oh my God, are you okay?” Allison asks.

“Yeah, I . . . I think so,” Stiles says shakily, and twists around. “Scott? Scott!”

“Over here,” Scott says, coughing weakly. “Ducked . . . behind . . . the tree there.” He’s on his knees, whining for air, elbows locked as he struggles for each breath. “Can’t . . . breathe.”

Stiles doesn’t have to ask where his inhaler is because he _knows_ , because Scott’s been his best friend since first grade, his brother, and he grabs it out of Scott’s back pocket, helps brace him, helps him get the medicine down. He gives a nod of thanks as his breathing evens out some.

“Stiles!” Derek jogs up and grabs him by both shoulders. “You idiot!” he adds, shaking him.

“I’m okay, we’re all okay, somehow,” Stiles says.

“All but one of us!” It’s Kate’s voice, and she emerges from the trees. She’s got Cora in front of her, with a gun pressed into her neck. Kate’s other hand is firmly clamped down over Cora’s mouth, and the teenager looks exhausted and furious. There are bruises on one side of her face and blood on her chin. “So,” Kate says, as if this is an every day event. “I’m looking for Peter Hale.”

“Really? Seriously?” Stiles says. “It’s over, okay? Peter already e-mailed all his evidence to half the reporters in town. Why the fuck do you even _care_?”

“Oh, honey,” Kate says. “Because I finish what I start. Which is why, once I’ve gotten Peter out of the way, I’m going to kill every single rotter in this town. No matter whose daughter they used to be,” Her gaze flicks over the crowd, assessing. “Oh, hey, Derek. Sorry I never returned your call. I hear you died in a fire. What a tragedy, right?”

Derek growls at her. “Get your hands off my sister.”

“Please,” Kate says. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s all one to me. I don’t need to kill Cora, but I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. Your sister’s a little bitch, you know that?”

Cora struggles to say something, and when she can’t, she bites down hard on Kate’s fingers. Kate gives a snarl of pain and yanks her hand back. Cora pushes away from her, and Derek lunges forward to try to grab her. Kate jerks the gun around and tries to aim at Cora, but Derek shoves his way in between them, taking the bullet in the chest.

“Derek!” Stiles shouts, knowing intellectually that a bullet won’t hurt him, but unable to stop the instinctual wave of panic. Derek is knocked backwards by the force of the bullet, and stumbles into Cora.

Another shot rings out, and this time it’s Kate who goes stumbling. Stiles’ head whips around and he sees Chris step into the road, his rifle still up and leveled at his sister as she lands hard on the ground, clutching at her shoulder. Blood starts welling up between her fingers. “Jesus, Chris! The fuck did you do that for?”

Chris just looks down at her. He opens his mouth to say something, but shakes his head and turns to Tom. “Better call an ambulance.”

“I’m a lot more worried about you guys than I am about her,” Tom says, but he’s already got his radio out.

Kate’s struggling to her feet when Peter comes down the road. “Ah, ah, none of that now,” he says, pushing her back down with his foot and grinding his heel into the wound. She lets out a strangled little cry between clenched teeth. Peter looks around and says, “She really did a job on your car,” before pulling out a handgun.

“Peter, don’t,” Tom says.

Peter gives him a look. “Oh, you won’t be stopping me, Tom. Chris got to kill the person who murdered his daughter; it’s only fair if I get the same courtesy. Mine didn’t even come back to life the way his did, so yes, I will be shooting this woman in the face after I’ve judged that she’s suffered sufficiently for her crimes.” He digs his heel into Kate’s wound again. “That might take some time. You should probably go check on the others at the house. They were still taking pot-shots from those HVF assholes, and Stiles, Lydia is furious that she can’t come running after you because her prosthetic isn’t made for that sort of thing.”

The others all look back and forth at each other. “She’s killed dozens of people,” Derek finally says. “She killed my family.” He struggles with that for a moment. “She killed my _family_. If you guys want to stop him, you’re on your own.”

Tom pushes a hand through his hair. “Peter. It was different with Allison’s murder. There was no evidence, nobody who could give testimony. Kate can be arrested, she’ll stand trial. She’ll go to prison for the rest of her life.”

“Where she’ll undoubtedly do very well, make friends, make trades, bargain for things she wants. No, Tom. You can arrest me if you want, but you can’t stop me. You _won’t_ stop me.”

There’s a long pause while Tom struggles to find the words to convey what he needs Peter to understand. “It was also different because Chris is a living human being. As a PDSS, if I arrest you for killing someone, they’ll give you the death penalty, whether you’re rabid or not.” He sees Peter open his mouth and says, “It’s more than that, Peter, would you stop and actually _think_ about the consequences of your actions? If you kill her, you’ll undo all the work that Stiles and the others have done for reintegration. You’ll reinforce the public’s notion that PDSS are mindless monsters. I’m as aware as you that you have every right to kill her, but that won’t _matter_ to anyone who isn’t standing here right now.”

Peter lets out a slow breath, seeing the way Tom’s hand was resting on the butt of his gun, ready to take action if need be. He looks down at Kate, still trying to wrestle free of him, and at his hands on his own gun, the burn scars there. Then he looks up at Derek and Stiles. “Sorry, boys,” he says, and pulls the trigger. Kate’s body jerks and then goes still.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Tom says, as all of them flinch away from the noise. “Peter, you son of a bitch – ”

Chris steps forward and gestures to Peter. “Give me the gun,” he says. Peter arches an eyebrow at him, then reaches up to wipe Kate’s blood off his face. “Give me the gun, Peter. I’ll take responsibility.”

Peter hands the gun over. Chris turns to Tom and says, “You should arrest me. I killed my sister.”

“Why are you doing this?” Tom asks.

Chris glances at where Stiles is still standing in a little knot with Derek and the others. “Your son protected me earlier when I’d done nothing to deserve it. Now let me protect him.”

Tom swears again and says, “I’m not handcuffing you until you’ve gotten the God damned HVF to stand down. Go do that, and then you’re going to be arrested. You’re going to plead out because you were protecting your daughter after Kate threatened to kill her, which all of us can stand witness to. We’ll concoct some details later. God knows my son seems good at doing that.”

“You know, I’m going to choose to take that as a compliment,” Stiles says.

Tom points to the house and barks, “March!”

“Yes, sir,” Stiles says, scurrying back towards the farmhouse. More lights and sirens are approaching now, and he wants to get out of the way before the other police officers show up.

They break off into two groups once they get back to the house. Scott and Tom go with Chris to try to round up the remaining HVF members, and the rest of them go into the house. Peter goes to turn the sprinkler system off and then clean himself up. Lydia is furious, and spends nearly ten full minutes shouting at Stiles about what an idiot he is. He endures this with good grace. Derek has an arm around Cora and is hugging her tightly as the two of them stand in silence.

“I did what you said,” she mutters. “I hated doing it, giving in to her, but I did it.”

Derek hugs her tighter. “It was the right thing to do.”

“It nearly got you all killed,” she says. “You have a hole in your chest.”

“They’ll superglue it shut,” Stiles tells her. She glowers at him and makes Derek sit down and take his shirt off so she can fuss over him and patch him up as best she can.

Cam comes in with his rifle over his shoulder and one arm slung around Isaac. “I guess the party’s over,” he says. “I’ll go help round up the casualties.”

“How many do you think there are?” Kira asks.

He shrugs. “I couldn’t really aim to kill or not, because the visibility was poor. I definitely shot about half a dozen people. Whether it was fatal or not, I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to find out.”

“Jesus, my dad is going to be filling out paperwork for the rest of the week,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

It turns into a long night. Backup shows up, along with Parrish and half a dozen other people. Four members of the HVF are arrested. Six are sent to the hospital with either gunshot wounds or because they’re suffering from Lydia’s chemical warfare. Another four are removed in body bags. One of the sickest is Jackson, who apparently got several lungs full of the gas Lydia had produced. Lydia huffs and says she’s not sorry at all.

When all that’s over, they finally get the power restored. Stiles goes with Derek to collect his paintings. Most of them have survived with little ill effects. The house is a waterlogged mess, and nobody really wants to stay there. Derek doesn’t want to be separated from Cora, so Tom agrees they can both come stay the night. Allison will be going with them, since Chris is going to be spending the night in a holding cell. Camden says he and Isaac will just get a hotel room for the night.

Tom doesn’t want Peter anywhere near him, he’s so furious, so he isn’t invited. He doesn’t argue or give any indication where he might sleep instead. Since Kate’s death he’s been quiet, almost serene, like nothing can bother him.

“I don’t blame him, you know,” Derek says, once they’re in the car on the way back to the Stilinski house. “I know that what he did was wrong and he endangered all of us and reintegration and everything, but . . . I can’t be angry at him about it.”

Tom’s jaw sets, but he says, “You don’t have to be angry at him. He’s your uncle, and he was getting revenge for your family, for you, too.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, hugging Cora closer to him. “And he was protecting us, too. He knew we’d never be safe as long as she was out there.”

“That’s probably true,” Tom says, and sighs. “Maybe I’m just upset because two people died in front of me today, and I couldn’t stop it either time.” He’s quiet for a minute. “You commit to a certain code of conduct when you become an officer of the law. It’s hard when you have to acknowledge that there are some things the law can’t handle. I don’t know that your uncle was wrong to do what he did. I just feel like there must have been better options.”

“I wish there had been,” Stiles says. He’s glad that Derek’s okay, and relieved that his murderer is gone. He sees where his father is coming from, and he knows that part of what’s bothering him is that he thinks he would have done the same thing, in Peter’s shoes, or Chris’. If Stiles had been killed by a person instead of a cougar, Tom Stilinski would have hunted that person to the end of the earth.

But talking about that obviously isn’t going to get them anywhere, so he doesn’t push him. Instead, he looks at Allison and says, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Allison says. “I mean . . . a little shaky. But I know that my dad’s going to be all right, and I’ll be all right as long as I have him.”

“What’s going to happen with the election?” Cora asks.

“I honestly have no idea,” Tom says. “Chris will probably have to drop out. One of his lieutenants will probably step up and run in his place, even if he only does it as a write-in. What effect that’ll have in the long run, I couldn’t begin to say. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

“I hate waiting,” Stiles says, and Derek gives him an amused nudge. Stiles nudges him back. He hates waiting, but he’s not worried. No matter what happens, they’ll be okay.

 

~ ~ ~ ~


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this fic turned into an epic! Thank you all so much for reading! <3

Tom has a long night in the field and then winds up at his desk until dawn filling out incident reports. It’s just after eight AM when Chris Argent comes into his office with two cups of coffee. “You look like hell,” Chris says. “Give you a ride home?”

“I’ll be busy here another hour or so,” Tom says.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Chris says. “After everything you’ve done for me and my daughter.”

Tom considers this. “Sure.” He accepts the coffee from Chris and takes a gulp of it. “Parrish go over everything with you?”

Chris nods. He doesn’t look bothered by the fact that he’s currently facing a homicide charge. “He said since the police department wasn’t interested in charging me on the grounds of self-defense, we have to wait to see what the district attorney thinks.”

“Hopefully he won’t want to charge you, either,” Tom says. “I’ll make it very clear in my statement that you were acting to save the lives of the people around you.”

“Thanks,” Chris says, with a nod.

Tom puts his pen down. “Why’d you do it? Step up for Peter?”

Chris is quiet for a minute, sipping his coffee. “For a lot of reasons,” he finally says. “To pay you and Stiles back for what you did for me, covering up what happened with Matt. To atone for the things I did, for not protecting my daughter when it mattered. Because I understand how Peter feels so well, having just confronted the monster that killed my daughter. And . . .” He takes another sip. “I feel like I should have seen it,” he finally says. “Kate. What she was. But I didn’t. People were hurt, people died last night, and they might not have, if I had seen what she was. They were in the wrong, coming to the Hales’ house like that; I won’t argue that point. But I don’t know that they deserved to die. And they wouldn’t have gone if Kate hadn’t egged them on. She had . . . a way with people.”

Tom nods wearily. “Well,” he says. “Thanks. I’m not sure Peter deserved it.”

“No. But I’m not sure either of us would have done different, in his shoes. Hell, I _know_ I wouldn’t have. I tried to take the high road with Matt and wound up doing a nosedive right off the side of it. Would you have been different?”

“Probably not,” Tom says, with a sigh. “I believe in the law. If Stiles were killed, I would do everything possible to bring that person to justice. But if it weren’t an option . . .”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “That’s the sticking point, isn’t it.” He finishes off his coffee. “Any idea how much time I’ll get?”

“If you get charged and go to trial, I couldn’t begin to say,” Tom says. “I wouldn’t bet on a jury. They could play off your previous charges, make you look like some bloodthirsty madman.”

“Whittemore wouldn’t.”

“Whittemore wouldn’t be handling your case,” Tom says, pushing a hand through his hair. “He got shot last night at the Hale house. Doctors say he’ll make it, but he’s going to be in rehab for a long damn time.”

“Oh,” Chris says. “I got the casualty list, but hadn’t heard about the injuries.”

“Yeah. Those were some of your guys out there, I guess.”

Chris nods. “They should have known better. I should have taught them better.”

Tom shakes his head. “We were all messed up by the Rising,” he says. “I don’t know if it would have been possible to get through to them. Not with Kate urging them to go marching in with torches and pitchforks.” He stirs some creamer into his coffee. “Anyway, even if Whittemore wasn’t in the hospital, all that stuff Peter has against him will get him booted out of office as soon as we get the charges put together. Along with about eight other people, including your father.”

Chris gives a little shrug. “I’d like to say I’m surprised that he turned out to be corrupt, but . . .”

“Yeah.” Tom sighs and shrugs. “If you plead out, you probably won’t get any time. Maybe a six month sentence, or possibly house arrest. Probation, almost definitely.”

“Okay. If I wind up in jail . . . will you look after Allison for me?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“I really can’t . . . can’t thank you enough. For taking her. When I wouldn’t.”

Tom waves this aside. “The way I hear it, you had some pretty damned compelling reasons to not want to believe any of this stuff,” he says. “Melissa didn’t give me any details, but she vouched for you, and I trust her judgment.”

“Thanks,” Chris says. Then he adds, “You know, that’s one hell of a kid you’ve got.”

At this, Tom smiles. “Believe me, I do know,” he says. “Now let me finish this stuff up and then we can get out of here.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

“I can’t believe you _literally_ blinded Jackson with science,” Stiles remarks, tossing his new phone into the air and catching it on the way down.

Lydia sniffs. “It was his own fault. I’m not sorry for him, not even a little. Anyway, his vision will come back in a day or two.”

Allison giggles. “You’re hardcore, and I love that about you.”

“Don’t mess with me,” Lydia agrees, and leans over to kiss Allison on the cheek.

“Trust me, after this, no one will want to,” Scott assures her. He elbows Stiles and says, “Hey, so, what are you up to today?”

“I told Derek I’d help him clean up around the house,” Stiles says. “A lot of stuff got ruined by the sprinklers. It’s not just water, you know, it’s like this weird chemical foam. Which was fun to make out in but had a really bad effect on the sofa. So we were going to go out and buy him some new furniture and stuff. Peter said he’d drive us.” He frowns and adds, “It just occurs to me that Peter has been driving around without a license all this time.”

“Yeah, because he’s clearly a real stickler about the law,” Allison remarks.

“Fair,” Stiles replies. “Anyway, I guess Peter has nineteen different meetings because of all the stuff he sent to the press last night. A bunch of people are incriminated in the records he put together, though some of them are dead now, and they have to put everything together, so my dad’s bringing him in for an official interview to go over everything. But he said he would drop us off at consignment store and then pick us up when he’s done. What about you guys?”

“I have class,” Kira says.

Scott lets out a breath and says, “I’m volunteering at the clinic today. I guess . . . guess we’ll see how that goes.”

“That’s awesome,” Stiles says, bumping shoulders with him. “Proud of you, bro.”

“What? Shut up,” Scott says, blushing. “Allison, what are you doing? Your dad should be here to pick you up soon, right?”

Allison nods. “Yeah, and we’re going apartment hunting. Camden and Isaac are coming with us, because they need a new place, too. I mean, now that the HVF around here is pretty effectively disabled, they don’t have to hide out on the farmhouse anymore, and Cam would rather have a place in town. Dad’s got that tiny apartment and I’d be okay with staying there, but he said he wants to get a bigger place so we’re not crammed in like sardines.”

“What’s your dad gonna do?” Kira asks. “I mean, he doesn’t really have a job anymore. He didn’t get paid for running the HVF, but everyone just gave him stuff for free. What did he do before the fire?”

“He worked in private security,” Allison says, “after he got discharged from the military. But he said he really didn’t want to do anything like that anymore. I think he just wants something a little quieter, you know?”

“Maybe my mom could help him get a job!” Scott says. “I know the hospital’s hiring. He could become a nurse or something.”

“My dad as a nurse,” Allison says, laughing. “But you know, actually, I can kind of picture that. I’ll talk to him about it.”

“How’s he going to afford a new apartment in the meantime?” Stiles asks.

“Peter’s paying for it,” Allison says. “As a thank you for what my dad did last night. The Hales have ungodly amounts of money. Peter offered to buy us a house if we wanted, but Dad would rather have an apartment. I think it’ll remind him less of, you know. The way things were before.” A momentary cloud passes over her face, and Lydia leans over to put an arm around her waist. “Anyway, yeah. Actually, from the way my dad was talking about it last night, I think he and Peter sort of bonded.”

“They and my dad can form a widower support group or something,” Stiles says. Scott rolls his eyes, and Stiles shrugs. “I’m actually a little bit serious. Maybe it would be good for them.”

“The day you see my dad agree to be part of a support group – ” Allison begins.

“Will be the day he finally gets some of the therapy he obviously needs?” Lydia finishes for her.

“Touché,” Allison says, and laughs again, leaning against her. “Maybe I’ll talk to him about that, too.” She looks up as she hears a car door shut. “This’ll be them. Lydia, you want to come?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Lydia says, getting to her feet. “We’ll see you guys later?”

“Yeah, call us when you’ve wrapped up for the day,” Stiles says. “We’ll hit up the Jamba Juice.”

“Deal,” everyone agrees.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

In the end, Chris decides against dropping out of the sheriff’s race. It’s too late for anyone else to register, and he hasn’t technically been convicted of or even charged with a felony yet, so he’s not obligated. He goes on the record saying that although his personal feelings about reintegration have changed, he would keep the promises he made during his campaign. That seems to be the best way to handle the situation. Hopefully that will prevent any of his lieutenants from trying to muster any sort of write-in campaign. It will give them an accurate reading on how the citizens of Beacon Hills feel about reintegration, and more than anything else, that’s what Stiles and the other PDSS want.

In the meantime, Camden gets him a job at the garage that he’s been working at as a mechanic. That will bring some money in while he starts taking night classes to become a physical therapist. He also took Peter up on his offer to buy them a house. Although he would have preferred an apartment, the logistics of having a PDSS in an apartment building were too complex. Too many landlords and other tenants had problems with it. The house was small, a single story on the edge of town. On their first day moving in, Chris went out and spray-painted ‘PDS’ on the garage door himself.

Peter has his old job back. He doesn’t work at an office building, but he still takes the occasional jobs with the firm that Aaron Hale had worked out of. Stiles had asked what kind of jobs, and Peter gave him a toothy smile. “Oh, delivering bribes, burying evidence, uncovering evidence, convincing people to testify or not to testify . . . all the illegal things that nobody at the firm wants to be caught doing.”

“I’m sorry I asked,” Stiles said.

“You’d be excellent at it,” Peter told him. “We’re hiring.”

“I’ll stick with law enforcement,” Stiles said. He knows it’s going to be a long road, knows that his PDS status is going to throw up a lot of barriers between him and his eventual job as one of his father’s deputies. But there’s no way he’s giving up. Not after everything that’s happened.

With five test subjects to study, Lydia’s making progress in her experimentation. She still hasn’t had much luck with protein, but they’ve been able to digest solid carbohydrates now, as long as they don’t try quantities that are too large. Stiles celebrates Halloween with a single Hershey’s miniature and declares it the best day of his afterlife.

Scott is back to working full time at the veterinary clinic, and it turned out to work out better than anyone had expected, for a completely unexpected reason. During his second day there, a man brought in a friendly golden retriever and mentioned that it was his therapy dog for PTSD. He watched his mother get killed during the Rising, he said, and he had gotten the dog from a friend and trained her himself.

“You can do that?” Scott asked, surprised.

Stiles went on a six hour research binge about therapy dogs for PTSD, and by the end of the day had submitted an application on Scott’s behalf at two separate organizations. By the end of October, Scott had a black lab that trotted around after him everywhere, nosing at Scott’s hand any time he started to get antsy, licking his face whenever he felt a flashback coming on.

The therapy dog helps Scott so much that Kira starts volunteering for one of the agencies and incorporating it into the psychological classes she’s getting. Once Lydia gets wind of that, they team up and wind up founding an entirely new idea: service dogs for PDS sufferers. Dogs are immune to the disorder, and to a certain extent it helps alleviate the public’s fears that a PDSS might go rabid. A dog like a Mastiff or a German Shepherd could both help a PDSS with their psychological problems, but also restrain them if they ever showed symptoms of losing control. Dogs could even be trained to scent the chemical differences in PDSS as their neurotriptyline was wearing off.

The idea takes off, and Isaac gets involved, talking about how much it helped to have his dog Max, especially during the day when Camden wasn’t there to keep him company. Lydia, just as scientific about this as she is about everything, starts researching dog breeds and what kind of traits a good companion dog would have, and before long it’s an entire cottage industry revolving around matching shelter dogs to PDS sufferers.

All in all, the public seems to be calming down incrementally as the election approaches, but the race is still split fairly evenly in the last poll.

The polls don’t close until seven, so they’re all waiting around the old farmhouse after dinner, which has been polished, refurbished, and refurnished. Stiles made dinner, and it was a lot of food. The Hales, Stilinskis, Argents, McCalls, Laheys, Yukimuras, and Reyes’ are all present, along with Lydia and Deputy Parrish. That makes for nineteen people, although six of them aren’t eating. Stiles buys the biggest turkey he can find and supplements it with mashed potatoes, stuffing, green bean casserole, and enough cranberry sauce to float a battleship.

“Thanksgiving has come early this year, I see,” Melissa says, giving him a hug.

“You try feeding thirteen people with anything besides a turkey,” Stiles retorts.

Melissa just laughs and says, “I brought dessert.”

“It better be pumpkin pie,” he tells her.

Dinner is a loud, surprisingly cheerful affair. Stiles sits between his father and Derek, across from Scott, and he feels good. They’re about to find out how terrible the next year of his life is going to be, but he doesn’t care. Whatever happens, he’ll handle it. They’ll handle it.

“Exit polls are giving Sheriff Stilinski a three point lead over Chris Argent,” the reporter is saying as they turn on the television after dinner, at about eight PM.

Chris looks at Tom and says, “I concede.”

Tom waves him off. “You can’t concede based on exit polls.”

“I don’t see why not,” Chris says, frowning at him.

“When will we get any sort of official word?” Allison says.

“Depends on how big the gaps are,” Tom says. “If it’s _actually_ fifty-three to forty-seven percent, they’ll probably give a projection by around nine PM. If it looks closer than that, they won’t call it until ten or eleven, maybe not even until tomorrow if it’s neck-and-neck.”

“We could call it right now if you’d let me concede,” Chris says.

“Yeah, what kind of loser wants to be sheriff?” Stiles asks, wrapping his arms around his father from behind and hooking his chin over his shoulder.

“Excellent question,” Tom says dryly.

Derek gives a quiet snort and then insinuates an arm around Stiles' waist. “C’mon, I’ll keep you busy while we’re waiting.”

“I’m _sure_ you will,” Stiles says, leering at him.

Derek just gives him an unimpressed look. “It’s physically impossible for us to have sex and everyone here knows it, so you can stop trying to make it sound dirty.”

“We could go make out for a half hour,” Stiles says hopefully.

“Yeah, okay,” Derek agrees, and pulls him out of the room. They go up to his studio, where he’s got a series of paintings lined up against the wall. He lets out a breath and pulls the sheet off the largest one, then folds his arms over his chest. “Okay. What do you think?”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “You made me look awesome.”

Derek scowls at him and rubs a hand over the back of his head, muttering something about how it still doesn’t do the moment justice. Then he waves at the line of paintings and says, “Peter said he could get me a show in San Francisco. Art of rotters, by rotters. Very avant garde.”

“Peter’s a dick,” Stiles says cheerfully, but he looks up and down the row of paintings. Besides the one of him leaning against the windowsill, there’s one of almost every PDSS in Beacon Hills. Isaac playing Frisbee with Camden, while Max runs between them and tries to intercept it. Lydia doing Allison’s makeup, a soft little smile on her face, wearing a short skirt so her prosthetic leg is clearly visible. Peter curled up in an armchair with a book. Erica and her sister and her mother, sitting on a picnic blanket. Then another of Stiles, on the sofa with his father, leaning against him while he types on his laptop. “Seriously, I love them. They’re amazing.”

“Thanks,” Derek says. He makes a little huffing noise. “I guess Allison showed Chris that sketch of Victoria and now he wants me to do a painting of her. Like, a family portrait of all three of them.”

“Wow,” Stiles says. “Are you going to do it?”

“I can’t really say no, can I?” Derek asks.

Stiles slides his hand into Derek’s and says gently, “You didn’t kill her, Der.”

Allison had told Stiles and Derek about what had happened to her mother, after making them promise not to tell anyone else. She didn’t want to spread her father’s obvious trauma around, but she thought that Derek deserved to know about a life he hadn’t taken.

“I attacked her, though. I caused her death.”

Stiles just squeezes his hand and says, “It wasn’t you.”

After a long moment, Derek sighs and says, “No. I guess not.”

Pleased, Stiles smiles at him, then nudges him with one shoulder. “Make-outs now, yes?”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, way to set the mood, Stiles,” he says, but settles on the new sofa, pulling Stiles into his lap and into a kiss. “I love you, okay?”

Stiles beams at him. “I love you, too. And we’ve been dating for two whole months and _nobody_ has gotten meningitis.”

“So it seems,” Derek says.

Stiles really enjoys making out with Derek. It can’t really go anywhere, and he has a feeling that he responds to it differently than a living person would, because he doesn’t get impatient as time goes on. He just likes to have Derek’s hands on him, touching him anywhere, everywhere. “This is awesome, right?” he breathes against Derek’s temple, as Derek mouths at his collarbone. “We can’t get blue balls, so we could literally do this forever.”

Derek gives a little snort and mutters, “You’re so weird.”

“Do you miss it?” Stiles asks.

“What, sex?” Derek asks, and Stiles nods. “Not really. I mean, I only had it twice in my entire life, so we’re not talking about something I had on the regular. And . . . this is better. Because it’s you.”

“Oh my God, that was so sweet I’m gonna throw up, say it again.”

Derek growls at him. “Let’s go check in on the election.”

“Fine,” Stiles says, laughing. But he means it. Eternity sounds surprisingly okay, as long as Derek’s there with him.

Down in the living room, the television is still playing at a low volume, but nobody’s really watching it anymore. Allison, Lydia, Cora, Erica, and Kira are sitting in a corner doing each other’s hair. Lydia is instructing the other girls on the art of the French twist. The men are sitting around with beers, except for Peter and Tom, and playing cards. Melissa is sitting with Erica’s mother, poring over a magazine article together.

“How’s it going down here?” Derek asks.

“Your uncle’s a lousy cheater,” Camden responds.

“I beg your pardon,” Peter says, pretending to be offended. “I’m an _excellent_ cheater, thank you very much.”

“He really has a way of summing himself up, doesn’t he,” Tom says, shaking his head.

“Don’t gamble away my college fund, Dad,” Stiles says. “But seriously. Election. C’mon. Spill.”

“They’re saying I’ve got fifty-two percent, but they still won’t call it; too many precincts haven’t reported in yet,” Tom says, not looking up from his hand of cards. “They’ve called governor for Brown already, but the senate and house races are still up in the air.”

There had been a number of propositions on the ballot regarding to PDSS, and most of them are still up in the air, although a few of them had been finalized. The law requiring PDSS to mark their homes had, surprisingly, been overturned. “That’s a good sign, right?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, it means I can finally repaint my garage,” Chris says, taking a swig of his beer.

Things are different in every state, of course, and a lot of the states on the east coast have already called their races and given final results. It’s interesting to go through the different propositions that have been voted into law. Stiles plops down next to his father while they talk about all the differences.

“Oh, it’s back on, pay attention, everyone!” Melissa says, grabbing the remote and turning the volume up.

“With seventy-eight percent of the precincts reporting it, the gap in the sheriff’s election has now widened to an astonishing fifty-six to forty-four percent,” the reporter is saying. “We’ve tried to reach Chris Argent for comment, but he’s unavailable. A spokesman at the sheriff’s station said that Tom Stilinski was watching the election with his family and deferred all comments until an official result is in.”

Chris looks at Tom. “ _Now_ can I concede?” he asks.

A smile is tugging at Tom’s lips. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Go call Mahealani.”

On the television, the reporter is saying to her co-host, “Do you think Tom Stilinski ever imagined he would actually do this well in the election, after everything that’s happened with the PDSS reintegration?”

“Well, you know, Jan, I actually think he might have,” the man says, “if only because in the past six months, he’s showed such determination and optimism even after everything, telling us over and over again that it _is_ possible for everything to be okay. And frankly I think that’s really impressive.”

“So no need to ask who you voted for,” the reporter says, and they both have a good chuckle over it.

Chris comes back in and pulls Allison out of the cluster of girls to give her a hug. She nestles against his shoulder. “Boy, am I glad _that’s_ finally over,” he says. He offers his hand to Tom, who shakes it. “Congratulations,” he adds.

“Thanks,” Tom says. “I suppose I should give some sort of statement or something.”

“Nah, let ‘em stew,” Scott says, and Stiles snorts.

On the television, Jan is saying, “We’ve received word that Chris Argent has called Tom Stilinski to concede the sheriff’s election. So, Sheriff Stilinski is officially the winner of that race, and we wish him the best of luck. Moving on to the results from prop 103 . . .”

“Want me to leave it on?” Melissa asks.

“Nah, it’s getting late,” Tom says. “We can read the rest of the results in the morning. I have to get my miscreant back home before he gets more ideas about running for office. Or working for Peter.”

“It was just an offer,” Peter says smoothly.

Stiles laughs and turns to Scott. “See you tomorrow, bro,” he says, and they exchange a back-slapping hug. Then he gives Lydia a kiss on the cheek and Derek a kiss on the mouth, waves to the others, and trots off after his father. “So, congrats,” he says, as they start down the little road that leads out of the isolated neighborhood.

“This is only the beginning,” Tom says. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yeah, I know that. I’m just . . . I’m not scared anymore. You know? It’s like, the days after I came home, I was terrified of everything. I was afraid of being dead and being alive and being _undead_ , I was afraid to leave the house and afraid to stay home . . . but I’m not scared anymore. I think we’re going to have to work hard and we’re going to have to keep fighting, but I think we _can_ do that, we _will_ do that, and everything’s going to be okay. As long as we have each other.” He rubs a hand over his hair. “Shit, that was really sappy, huh?”

“You bet,” Tom says. “And I loved every word.”

“You and me against the world, right?” Stiles asks, holding up a fist.

Tom raps knuckles with him gently. “You and me _with_ the world,” he says. “We’ll just drag them over onto our side.”

Stiles grins happily. “You want to go get some curly fries? I think I could lick them without getting sick.”

“That’s disgusting, son,” Tom says. “What about my cholesterol?”

Stiles shrugs. “What the hell,” he says. “Nobody lives forever.”

 

~fin~


End file.
